


All Roads Lead Home at Christmas

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Tags to Come, Based on prompts, Christmas, Happy ending because it’s Christmas, I'm making this up as I go, John gets a dog, M/M, Rating May Change, post trf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 25,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27818818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: Perhaps Christmas could truly be a time for miracles, for some. But John didn't believe in miracles. Not anymore.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 139
Kudos: 101
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. ‘Tis the Season

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be posting a chapter every day (or plan to) based on the prompt list. I'm playing loose with the timeline here because it's Christmas and I want to. Not beta'd. If you notice any glaring mistakes, please let me know! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

John stared at the glowing red numbers of his alarm clock in his still dark room. It wasn’t quite 5 yet, but he knew he would get no more rest. He was too familiar with the feeling in his gut after years in a war zone and nightmares and late nights following a madman to ignore. His body and mind were too awake now. 

He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to fall back into the dream that he had woken from, anyway. It was rare for him to want to return to anything he had dreamed, but this one had been rather lovely. Well, part of it, at least. 

It had been their first Christmas together. They had had their few friends over, and John had been dating that woman, what was her name? Jean? Janet? Did it even matter? She hadn’t actually been in the dream, which just went to prove she didn’t matter.

John had been sitting on his chair while Sherlock played Christmas songs on his violin to appease Mrs. Hudson, his lean form straight and strong, the colored fairly lights of the tree lighting him, his arms lovingly crading the instrument he so loved. Sherlock would do anything for Mrs. Hudson, no matter what fuss he made about it before doing whatever she asked. Other than the wear the antlers, that was. 

John smiled as he chased the last remnants of the dream that was partly memory. The dream had ended before Sherlock had discovered The Woman’s gift, and John had a feeling that if the dream had been allowed to continue, Sherlock never would have found it and The Woman wouldn’t have ruined their celebration with her ill-timed fake death. 

He huffed as he opened his eyes. The dream was gone, the illumination of the fairy lights and the warm feeling of good booze in his belly both fading into the gray light of early morning in the city, and the last thing he wanted was to think more of Sherlock or The Woman or anything, really. Thinking would lead to remembering and the reminder that the past was in the past and there was nothing in his present or future to warrant thinking about.

Pushing himself to a sitting position, he rolled his shoulder carefully, his right hand coming up to knead the muscle where it had tightened during sleep, before he dragged his legs over the side of the bed and his feet hit the cold floorboards before he managed to find his slippers and shove his feet in. He leveraged himself off the bed, feeling every bit the old man he knew he was. 

He wrapped and tied his robe around himself as he made his way down the stairs from his room and padded into the kitchen. His body went through the familiar motions of preparing his tea and breakfast without any input from his brain, which was why it wasn’t until he had taken his tea and toast into the living room to watch the news on the telly that he noticed the stockings hung along the mantle. And the Christmas tree in the corner that was wrapped in colorful fairy lights, but no other decoration.

He was fairly positive he hadn’t been the one to put them there, and when he noticed the plate of shortbread biscuits on the table, it was all the confirmation he needed to know who did. He knew Mrs. Hudson’s perfect shortbread on sight. 

A smile pulled at his mouth without his consent before he frowned. 

Was it already December, then? 

He supposed it was. He hadn’t paid any attention to the calendar beyond whether it was a workday or not in a long time. 

How on earth had Mrs. Hudson managed to get a tree in his flat without him noticing? And what time did she do it? Was it there when he came in last night? Just how out of it was he? There was no way she did it by herself, not with her hip. She must have paid someone to bring it up. 

Sherlock would be so disappointed in his complete lack of observation. Who misses a whole tree standing in their living room? 

He would have to pay her back. He hadn’t planned on getting a tree, but then, he hadn’t the last year either. One had turned up then, too. 

Maybe she was magic. It would actually explain a lot. 

A witch, like in _Harry Potter_. Her and McGonagall were probably best friends. 

He shook his head at himself as he settled onto the couch and pulled the tartan blanket over his legs before turning on the telly. He drank his tea and ate his toast while the light outside slowly turned from grey to the blush of a rare cloud-free morning in London. 

His eyes strayed from the telly to the plate of biscuits. He shrugged and reached out, grabbing two off the plate before popping one in whole. He sighed in bliss as the buttery goodness practically melted on his tongue.

'Twas the season, and all. Biscuits for breakfast was perfectly acceptable. 

He frowned, though, after a moment. 

Sherlock had loved Mrs. Hudson’s baking. He would have loved these biscuits.

He put the second one back on the plate, his appetite suddenly gone, as he realized he faced yet another Christmas alone. Another Christmas without Sherlock. Another Christmas without his friend.

John stood and made his way back to the kitchen, pulled open an upper cabinet, and grabbed the nearly empty bottle at the front. He poured a finger of whisky into his empty teacup before turning to look at the closed door at the end of the hallway. It didn't matter that it wasn't even 6, yet. He raised the glass in salute. 

"Cheers, Sherlock."


	2. Bells

When John eventually made his way down the stairs he wasn’t at all surprised to see the garland wreaths and fairy lights decorating the entrance to 221 and his way to Mrs. Hudson’s door. A quick rap of his knuckles on the door followed by an “it’s unlocked!” found him opening the door and being instantly enveloped in the scent of Chrismas baking. It reminded him of visiting his grandmother when he was a boy, the scent of vanilla and sugar and butter heavy in the air, and he breathed in deeply. 

Mrs. Hudson’s head poked around out of the kitchen and she smiled at him. 

“There you are, John. I was wondering when you’d make your way down. The tree looks good, doesn't it? I had those young men next door bring it up for me yesterday. When I went to the little farm stand to pick mine up there was that one just sitting there all pretty and I just knew it would look good up there. I put the lights on, of course, you saw that, but I didn’t want to do the ornaments. Not on my own, at least. There’s something special about putting the ornaments on that should be done with others, I think. Plus I wasn’t sure where you kept the special ones, and I didn’t want to bother you when you got home last night.”

John blinked and nodded at the appropriate times, or what he thought were the appropriate times, as he let his landlady prattle on the way she did whether he was paying attention or not. He was content enough to let her. She didn’t require him to respond verbally and it was a relationship that worked well for the both of them since Sherlock’s fall. She talked, and he listened, and they drank tea or played cards games that she always won and John was convinced that she was counting cards or something because there was no way someone just won that often.

Or perhaps it was him and he was just destined to be the loser no matter whether it was life or a game of poker, so whoever he played against always won. Since Mrs. Hudson was the only one he played cards with, she was the de facto winner in their games.

God, he really shouldn’t drink that early in the morning. It made him maudlin and far too depressingly philosopical for a Saturday morning. 

Mrs. Hudson ushered him to the couch in her living room and went back into her kitchen where we heard her bustling about with the kettle and a few minutes later, she made her way back into the room with a tray filled with tea and biscuits. She set the tray down and settled down beside him after pressing a cup into his hands, prepared just as he liked.

“Thank you,” he automatically replied

“You’re welcome, dear.” She fussed a moment with her own tea and settling comfortably onto her spot beside him. One hand absently patted his knee before she grabbed the remote and turned the telly on to some holiday program running on BBC. The volume was on low, for now, just background noise to whatever conversational topic she had in mind. John sipped his tea and waited patiently for her to begin.

“How are you doing, dear?” she asked.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson,” John answered. She frowned at him and he took another sip of his tea.

“John. I know I’m just an old woman, and I’m not your mother, but I worry about you.”

“I know.”

“I miss him, too.”

“I know you do.”

“You aren’t getting any younger, dear. It might be time to start thinking about moving on. Meeting someone new.”

“Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I were not…,” John began, as he always did when she started in on him, and as ever, she cut him off before he could finish.

“Maybe not officially, dear, but I’m not blind. You two were good together. What you two got up to in your rooms is none of my business, live and let live, but you loved him.”

John frowned, then sighed. Ran his empty hand over his face. 

“He loved you, too. No matter what he said or did.”

The sound of bells ringing on the telly assaulted his hearing, or perhaps it was just the sound of his blood as it raced through his body, filling his ears, while his heart pounded hard in his chest. 

Yes, he did love Sherlock. Had loved him. But he wasn’t under any illusions that Sherlock ever loved him. He believed Sherlock cared for him, of course, in the way he could. He believed Sherlock saw him as a friend. 

Nothing more than that, though. And it didn’t matter, anyway. He would never know. 

He turned his attention back to the telly. Saw that it was indeed bells on the program Mrs. Hudson had turned on. 

“Can you turn the volume up, please?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled, patted his knee again, and turned her attention to the telly as well as she turned up the volume. She handed him a biscuit and he bit into it, chocolate this time, and leaned back into the soft cushions as the scent of vanilla and sugar settled around them.


	3. Chilly

The air was bitterly cold as John made his way to the Tesco after his shift at the clinic. If he hadn’t promised Mrs. Hudson he would pick up a few things for her that morning, he wouldn’t have bothered, but he had so now he felt obligated to not put it off just because he was tired and it was cold out.

When he got back to 221, he stopped off at Mrs. Hudson’s to drop off the purchases he made for her, and she thanked him with an invitation for tea, which he declined. She then offered one of her herbal soothers, which he also declined with a barely contained huff of laughter, and she finally let him leave with another plate of freshly baked biscuits. 

He wished her goodnight, then closed the door behind him as she settled onto her couch to tend to her hip medication.

He trudged up the stairs juggling his remaining bags and the plate of cellophane-covered biscuits, and sighed as he entered the icebox that was supposed to be his warm flat. There was no sound coming from the radiator and he really didn’t have the time or the patience to bother trying to fix it now. He was too tired and didn’t want to deal with the blasted thing, and he wasn’t going to bother Mrs. Hudson since it was too late to bring someone in to properly see to it at this hour. 

The bags were awkward with the plate in hand, so he walked into the kitchen and placed them down on the table before he started unloading the bags. Once the groceries were all put away, he pulled his mobile out and placed an order at the local Chinese for delivery. He couldn’t be bothered to cook anything and was too hungry to just skip eating like he sometimes did. He grabbed a biscuit, ginger nut, and ate the whole thing in one bite.

He made his way from the kitchen back into the living room, brushing the crumbs from his shirt, and over to the cold fireplace. He fiddled with the logs and kindling for a few moments before he finally coaxed the wood to catch and properly burn. The heat wasn’t instantaneous, but he could already feel the immediate area around the fireplace as the flames licked higher grow warmer. By the time his food was delivered, the living room had managed a slow climb up a few degrees higher. Not warm, by any means, but no longer frigid.

John ate his dinner in his chair by the fire, not even bothering to remove the chow mein from its carton while watching a Doctor Who reruns on the telly. He watched another rerun while waiting for the room to warm before finally conceding defeat to the ache in his muscles and the heaviness in his eyes. 

He went up to his room to find it wasn’t any warmer and he debated whether sleeping on the couch near the warm fire, or in his cold bedroom, would be worse for his shoulder. 

The cold would be worse.

He pulled on his warmest pajama bottoms and thickest jumper he could comfortably sleep in, then grabbed his duvet and pillow before heading back downstairs. The air grew steadily warmer as he made his way to the living room and he closed the doors that lead out to keep the heat locked in the room. 

John tossed his pillow and duvet down and finished getting ready for bed. After brushing his teeth he came back to the couch, placing his pillow exactly so before he laid down and pulled his duvet around him. Shifting his body to a more comfortable position, he frowned as he caught sight of the still barely decorated tree. He hadn’t bothered bringing down the box of ornaments that he and Sherlock had used their first and last Christmas together. He hadn’t used them last year, either. They were all Sherlock’s, anyway. Ornaments from his youth, Sherlock had told him, that his mother had given him the day he moved out. John had been impressed that he had managed to hold on to them considering Sherlock’s past. He had briefly considered contacting Mycroft for him to collect them when he had found the box the year before, but quickly decided against it. The slimy bastard would likely have binned them, and John couldn’t stand the thought of Sherlock’s belongings being lost or destroyed. 

It was sentimental, but there was no one there to judge him for it anymore. The fact that Sherlock had kept them showed just how much he cared for them as well, but it would have been a waste of oxygen to try and point that out to the man. 

The thought of Sherlock brought a tightness to his chest, as it always did, and he blinked hard before turning his head to gaze at the back of the couch. A chill different from the one in the flat settled around his heart like an old friend, achingly familiar and bittersweet, and he knew that no amount of blazing fire or cocoon of blankets could warm him.


	4. Deck the Halls

“Mrs. Hudson!” 

John waited, but he didn’t hear a reply. He continued to stare at the door to his flat, then shook his head with a wry smile before opening his door. 

The door opened up into a delightfully warmer climate than it had revealed the past three days, as well as the sharp scent of fresh evergreen garlands. It appeared that the wreath that had decorated his door wasn’t the only addition that Mrs. Hudson had made to the flat while he was out. 

There was an arrangement of evergreen and candles on the table in front of the couch, a garland wrapped around the kitchen doorframe, another wreath decorated with pinecones was hanging over the mirror above the fireplace, and another garland wrapped around the banister that led up to his bedroom. 

There was even a sprig of mistletoe hung from the middle of the kitchen door jamb and John felt his eyes roll in exasperation. That was a complete waste of money, no matter that it was tradition. There was no one he was kissing and he didn’t see that changing anytime soon. 

A string of failed dates and a handful of one-night stands stretched behind him, but there was no one on the horizon. He just didn’t particularly care anymore and though he missed the intimacy, both physically and emotionally of being with another person, he couldn’t be bothered to put any effort into any relationship. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day. 

A sound coming from upstairs put him automatically on high alert. He frowned, then quietly toed off his shoes before walking silently to the stairwell that led to his room. His heart was pounding in his chest, his palms tingling, his fingers itching for the gun he no longer carried. He felt frighteningly alive, alive in a way he hadn’t felt since the last time he chased after a twirling grat coat and a head full of dark curls.

When he was halfway up the stairs, feet falling exactly as they needed to remain undetected, he heard a quiet humming, and the adrenaline that a moment before had been coursing through him left, leaving him completely deflated. 

He trudged up the last few stairs and walked up to his open bedroom door to find Mrs. Hudson, headphones on, attaching garlands to his window pane. There was no wonder he didn’t hear his earlier call for her. The music was blaring through the headphones and he could clearly hear it from across the room. 

“Mrs. Hudson!” 

His landlady spun around, flinging a fake pinecone directly at his head, as she raised a hand to her heart in surprise.

John easily dodged the pinecone and couldn’t help the smile that came to his face as she calmed down.

“John! You scared me!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I didn’t mean to.”

She patted her hair with her empty hand, then twisted back around to attach the bauble that she still held in her other hand to the greenery. John bent down to pick up the projectile pinecone and brought it over. 

“Just up there, please,” she instructed its placement, and John followed directions rather than argue with her that he didn’t need or want the decoration in his room. Few things were worth the argument with the woman. She was older, but she was formidable. Bad hip, or no.

That said, he couldn’t help poking a bit at the wasp’s nest.

“I think you may have taken the ‘Deck the Halls’ saying a bit too far, Mrs. Hudson,” he commented wryly.

“Oh shush, I took it exactly as far as I needed to. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could do more. Do you think we could do the outside windows?”

“I think this is plenty. It’s just me up here in this flat.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded absently as she fussed with the garland and John let her carry on without further conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me all the way. It's not my favorite, but it'll have to do. Thanks for reading!


	5. Shepherd

The atmosphere of the pub hovered on the edge of uncomfortably loud, and crowded, and warm, but that same atmosphere offered the distraction he needed after the day he had. That, and the third pint he was working his way through.

Work had been a constant stream of flu and strep tests, runny noses, and one memorable ingrown toenail that could possibly give him nightmares. And he knew a thing or two about nightmares. 

He chuckled at his own thoughts, then shook his head. He should really get back home. It had only been three drinks, but he knew that if he didn’t leave soon, he’d have a fourth and that wouldn’t bode well for his Saturday. While he enjoyed a few drinks on a Friday night, he was really getting too old for the Saturday morning hangover. His body just wasn’t what it once was. 

John finished his drink and pushed himself off the stool that he had been occupying for the past two hours. The room spun for a moment before righting itself, further proof that he was at the perfect stopping point to avoid any negative side effects. He gave a nod to the barkeep as he pulled on his coat before making his way out. 

He liked this pub because it was within easy walking distance of Baker Street. It gave him time to stretch his legs and sober up a smidge, plus it had the added benefit of allowing him to reminisce in a causal way other walks he took on London nights.

He knew that it was time to put his past behind him. He did. And some days he did really well with it, but something about this time of year made it impossible for him not to dwell on thoughts and memories of Sherlock Holmes. 

Their relationship had probably been a strange thing to behold to everyone else in the world, but there was no denying the chemistry between them. John had taken an instant liking to him, something that he hadn’t done since he had first met James Sholto in the Army. Honestly, it was something he never imagined would happen again. But Sherlock changed everything, hadn’t he? 

John had been walking a knife’s edge between life and death when he ran into Mike at the park, and that meeting led to another far more life-altering one. It was fleeting. Their time together far too brief. That in itself, though, was a summary of who Sherlock was. He was in and out of John’s life in a flash, shining so intensely John was blinded and could see only him, and now that he was gone he constantly felt the absence of his light. The world around him just a bit duller. It wasn’t as dark as after the war had been, and he had Sherlock to thank for that. But he also had Sherlock to thank for the world he left behind seeming that bit more shadowed. 

He simultaneously loved and hated the man with his whole heart and he supposed that summed up his entire relationship with Sherlock, as well. 

As he passed an alleyway, lost in his thoughts, he caught a strange sound. He had already stopped and was turning back towards the noise before his mind made a conscious decision. It had been a noise of distress and it only took three steps into the darkened alley before he found the source. 

A smaller dog, fur covered in muck, was whining softly behind some bins. John leaned down, cautiously holding out a hand for the mutt, and after several moments the dog nudged his head forward, sniffling at his hand. 

The dog seemed to find him trustworthy because he stepped closer to him, and John noticed the way he held his paw. 

“Did you get hurt, boy?” he asked, scratching gently at the dog's ears. “No, wait, girl.”

The dog whined and licked his palm in reply and John sighed to himself.

It was a small dog, some kind of shepherd mix if he had to guess, and rather young, he thought. There was no collar and though John was no veterinarian, he was a doctor. He had already decided that he was going to take care of the dog, at least until he could find its owner or get it somewhere. 

“Alright then, girl. Let’s get you home,” John said. 

He reached down and waited to see if the dog would disagree with his actions before carefully lifting her. 

“We’ll have to be quiet. And get you cleaned up or Mrs. Hudson might well murder us in our sleep,” he informed the dog and she panted happily in his arms as they made their way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 💜


	6. Joy

Mrs. Hudson did not, in fact, murder John or the dog when she had ventured up the stairs to 221B the morning after John found her. He had washed off the mud as well as he could, which wasn’t very considering the size of the tub and the lack of dog shampoo, but she was cleaner than she had been. The tawny shade of her fur was at least separate from the brown patches that wrapped around her eyes and down her face. He had wrapped her leg in an attempt to help alleviate the pain she was experiencing, then he had gone to sleep on the couch because he didn’t want to leave her alone in a strange place. She had curled up on the floor near his head and that was where Mrs. Hudson found them.

She had coo’d and aww’d over the dog the whole morning, ignoring every comment John made on it being a temporary arrangement while he tried to find either her owners or someone to care for her.

“Oh, John, she’s lovely. You’ll take care of her, dear.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I really don’t think I can take care of a dog.”

“Of course you can, dear. You’re a capable man.”

“I’ve never cared for a dog before. I don’t know the first thing about caring for them.”

“You’re a doctor, John. You can figure it out. Read a book. Look online somewhere. Go to a pet shop.”

John frowned, looking down at the dog that had curled up in front of the hearth, soaking up the heat from the fire. Her injured leg was resting comfortably, he supposed, and the wrapping seemed to have worked, at least for the moment. She had hobbled after him gingerly all morning.

“She might belong to someone.”

“She didn’t have a collar, you said.”

“No, but still. She’s injured, as well. I’ll need to take her to a vet.”

“See? You’re already a responsible pet owner.”

“I’ll have them check to see if she had an owner. See if anyone has called in a missing dog or something.”

Mrs. Hudson followed his gaze as he looked at the dog and she gave a small smile. 

“I think she’s already claimed you.”

“We’ll see. I’ll call and find somewhere to take her in.”

A few hours later saw him leaving an emergency vet that was open on Saturday’s with a dog that no one had reported missing, wasn’t microchipped (he hadn’t even been aware people put microchips in their dogs these days), and had a sprain that would heal in a couple of days. He had been instructed to make sure she didn’t spend too much time on her feet and to keep her from running if possible. He had left his number in case anyone called to report a missing dog, but they didn’t think it was likely. 

He also had the number of the veterinarian, but he didn't think that was likely. 

So, he had left, dog in arms, and carried her the five blocks back to the flat.

All in all, it wasn’t the oddest thing he had ever done in London. Thank God he no longer needed a cane. There would have been no way he could have carried a dog, even a smaller one, a few years ago.

When he walked back into his flat, he was greeted by another new addition to the decor. 

Apparently, Mrs. Hudson had gone shopping. There was a large dog bed on the floor near his armchair, along with some kind of bright red dog toy. He placed the dog down and she made her way over to the bed, sniffing interestedly at the toy before giving it an investigative lick.

He turned to the kitchen and wasn’t even surprised to find more additions. There were two ceramic bowls. One was already filled with water and the other, presumably meant for food, was empty. On the kitchen table, there was a bottle of dog shampoo, a matching leash and collar, a small bag of dry kibble, a few cans of wet dog food, and another dog toy. There was even a book that proclaimed “How to Care for Your New Dog!” and he huffed in fond exasperation.

“Yoo-hoo!” 

A sharp rap on the door to the flat accompanied Mrs. Hudson’s call and John walked out of the kitchen to find his landlady standing with a plate of biscuits in the doorway and the dog wagging her tail so enthusiastically her entire body moved in an almost serpentine motion. He couldn’t help the smile that came to his face as he watched her sniff excitedly at the plate Mrs. Hudson held. 

“Mrs. Hudson, you really didn’t need to do all of this.”

“Of course I did. She needs all these things and you were busy.”

“What if I had come back alone because I found her owner?”

“Oh, that wasn’t going to happen. I told you she’s already claimed you,” Mrs. Hudson proclaimed with a flippant hand gesture.

“Well, thank you. For getting all of this. I guess she will be staying here, for now at least. Are you sure it’s ok if she stays? I can find somewhere else for her to go.”

“Nonsense, dear. She’s more than welcome to stay. She needs a name, though. You can’t keep calling her ‘dog’.”

John nodded in agreement as his eyes drifted back to the dog. Her tail was still wagging, though not quite as hard as before, with her mouth open and her tongue lolling out as she smiled in that way dogs did. John smiled.

“What about Joy?”

“Joy?”

“She just seems very happy for a dog that was found on the street with a sprained leg. So, yes. Joy.”

The dog turned to look at him, tail picking up speed as if in recognition of the moniker, and she hobbled over to him. John bent down to scratch behind her ear and she leaned into his hand, the picture of contentment. 

“I think she approves. Joy it is, then.”

John smiled again, then stood up. “So what biscuits did you bring me today?”

“Oh no, dear, these aren’t for you. They’re for Joy,” Mrs. Hudson informed him before plucking a biscuit off the plate and holding it out for Joy, who took it eagerly.


	7. Blankets

While Joy was content with her dog bed while John was downstairs and in his armchair, it would simply not do when he climbed the stairs for bed. After her leg had healed, she had followed him up, jumped on the bed, and made herself right at home at the foot of it. John had made one token effort to try and convince her that dogs didn’t belong on beds, but they both knew she was going to get what she wanted. 

When he woke up one morning a couple of weeks before Christmas, it was to find London covered in an unexpected snowfall, and he was grateful for the extra warmth of Joy’s warm body as she stretched across his bed as he watched the snowfall outside his window. 

He realized after a few minutes that he would need to take Joy out for a walk and his silent contemplation of the snowflakes dusting his window turned into an internal groan. Snow was pretty enough falling, but in the city, it quickly turned grey with the filth from the streets and he wasn’t eager for Joy to bring all that muck back into the flat.

There was nothing for it, though, and he pushed the blankets down and off before tossing his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hit the cold floor and he immediately missed Joy’s warmth.

At his movement, Joy had lifted her head, her ears perking up as she watched him before she stood and stretched on the bed, matching John’s own stretching movements as he stood up from the bed. 

“Come on, girl, let’s do this thing before it gets any worse,” John said, and Joy jumped off the bed, landing lightly on her paws, and John smiled to see that her leg really was much better than when he found her.

He followed her as she trotted down the stairs and went to stand expectedly at the door to wait for John to put her leash on. She was such a well behaved dog that John really thought she must have belonged to someone before he found her. She had clearly had some kind of training, but he never had a call from the vet, and he had never seen any missing dog flyers.

He was glad for that, though. He wasn’t sure he could give Joy up, even though it had only been a week. She had wormed her way so intrinsically into his heart and life, filling holes he knew was there but didn’t think would ever be filled again, that the thought of not having her there was almost painful. 

Sometimes he wondered what Sherlock would have thought about her. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock had even liked animals. He liked to imagine that Sherlock would have loved her as much as John did. Sometimes he thought of Sherlock, with his carefully crafted mask of indifference completely dropping away in that way it sometimes had when he didn’t know John was watching him, and imagined that’s how he would have been with Joy. The mask down as he scratched behind her ears. He imagined Sherlock playing with her down on the floor and that image nearly made him laugh. Sherlock had never been averse to getting on the ground or crawling in filth if it meant finding some important piece of evidence, and he liked to imagine that it would have been the same kind of situation with Joy. That he wouldn’t have minded.

He shook his head at himself as he pulled on his coat and scarf, then pulled a hat on as well since he had no intentions of freezing while outside. He pulled on his gloved, then attached Joy’s leash to her collar, the shiny silver of her nametag that Mrs. Hudson had bought for her catching the light that shone through the living room windows before he pulled open the door and they made their way down the stairs and out the door.

The snow blanketed the pavement in small drifts from the wind and it was early enough that it wasn’t completely icy grey slush, yet. They walked, leaving behind paw prints and shoes, and John couldn’t help the sad smile that came to his face as he wondered with Sherlock would have deduced from the prints they left behind. 

"Single man, size 9 shoe with a worn instep. Trainers, so he's out for a walk in the snow, obviously. Now, the dog. Younger, and recently injured judging by the drag of front left paw, but probably not in pain. A smaller dog, see how light the prints go into the snow? At least two colors in fur, you can see the fur that came out right here in this print. Probably out on their morning walk to the closest park."

And John would have been amazed, as he always had been, when Sherlock was reading the world around him in a way that no one else did. That no one else ever could.


	8. O' Christmas Tree

John stared at the box that he had brought down from the top of the cupboard. It was a boring box. Just cardboard, absolutely nothing special about it, but John knew what he would find inside, and for some reason, it was taunting him. 

He had grown tired of Mrs. Hudson’s repeated comments and sighs about the state of his Christmas tree and it’s lack of decoration. She was not exactly a subtle woman, though she could be when she wanted to, but it appeared John’s tree was not one of those times she believed subtlety was called for.

She wouldn’t just go and decorate on her own, though. She was determined that John be a part of the process, and as such, she had taken to venturing up several times a day, whenever John was in the flat, and staring at the tree disparagingly.

“It looks so sad with just the fairy lights, John. It needs more color.”

“I have plenty of ornaments we could use to spruce this old tree up a bit, love.”

“Dear, if you were going to just let the tree die, I would have left it in the lot. Are you remembering to water it at all?”

“I hope you haven’t been letting Joy chew on these branches.”

“Do you think that Christmas trees are the best part of Christmas? Because I do. Especially when they’re all nicely decorated with their lights and ribbons and ornaments.”

“John Watson, I am going downstairs to make a pot of tea, and when I come up here I want to see you making an effort to do something about this tree.” 

That had been her most recent declaration, and she was down in her flat at that moment, presumably making tea, and John had pushed himself off his chair where he had been eating his breakfast and went to find the box. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what Mrs. Hudson was capable of if he didn’t get to work on the tree and he wasn’t keen on finding out, either. The woman was formidable, and when possible, he preferred to stay on her good side. He had ignored her gentle pushes for as long as he could and he wasn’t interested in seeing just how hard she could shove if he didn’t comply sooner rather than later.

Easier to give the old woman what she wanted.

He watched as Joy sniffed at the box, her wet nose leaving little smears of moisture across the unadorned cardboard where she pressed particularly hard before moving onto another angle to examine it.

The action actually had John choke back a sudden laugh. Sherlock had once done something very similar on a case. He had knelt down on all fours, his sensitive nose close to a box rather like the one Joy was occupied with, and he had sniffed and moved to different angles until he finally identified what he was smelling.

The more John watched Joy he finally gave up holding back his laughter and let it out. It was absolutely ridiculous that a dog sniffing a box should cause his chest to tighten and feel looser all at the same time, but it did.

“What’s got you in a good mood?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she returned, tea tray in hand.

She crossed the room and laid them out on the table. John quieted, but let the smile linger on his face.

“I was just thinking about Sherlock.”

Mrs. Hudson blinked in surprise. They usually didn’t talk much about Sherlock, and never without Mrs. Hudson being the one to bring him up, but she smiled at him after her surprise faded.

“What about?”

“About how he might have been part dog, I think. He and Joy share a lot of similarities,” John grinned and Mrs. Hudson tutted in that gently chiding way she did.

“He was too picky about what he ate to be part dog,” she said, and John laughed in reply.

“What’s in the box, then?”

John stood up and crossed the room to the box. He opened it up and pulled out a small penguin figurine that had belonged to Sherlock once upon a time. He turned to show Mrs. Hudson and she clapped her hands together once in excitement.

“Oh, wonderful! Let’s get this tree decorated, then.”

She came over to look through the box with John and they spent the early afternoon decorating the tree while sharing random stories that didn’t make any sense to share while decorating a tree, but neither of them seemed to care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a slow build, but I promise good things are coming. Thank you for reading! 💜


	9. Making a List

Music from the radio filled his otherwise quiet kitchen as John sat in one of the kitchen chairs. Joy was curled up around his feet, keeping them delightfully warm with her thick fur coat. A cup of tea sat half-drunk at his elbow.

_Mrs. Hudson  
Joy  
Co-workers  
Harry_

John stared down at the rather sad little list on his kitchen table. He had written down everyone he needed to buy gifts for and clearly, it had been a waste of paper and ink. It wasn’t as if he really needed to write a list down, as he was hardly going to forget to buy for such a small amount of people. His co-workers would all be getting chocolates from the little specialty store he had stumbled upon while out with Joy the week before and Harry, as well, actually. He felt a brief tug of guilt at putting his sister on the same level as his co-workers, so he added a mental note to spend more on her gift than theirs to assuage that misplaced guilt. 

Joy was easy to buy for, as well. He may have gone a bit overboard, actually. He had started an online cart at one of those fancy pet websites and the pricetag was at a rather embarrassingly high number considering he was buying for one dog, but he felt absolutely no regret for those impending purchases. She would love the squeaky toys and the new chew toys that could be filled with peanut butter. And the little raincoat only made since. They lived in London and purchasing his dog a raincoat just made sense. He went back and forth on the necessity of the wellies. 

The jumper he found that closely resembled one of his own was too good to pass up and that had been added to the cart, as well. 

It wasn’t like there was anyone to judge him for dressing his dog in clothes and spending exuberant amounts of money on her. 

Mrs. Hudson was somewhat trickier. He wanted to get something thoughtful for her. Somehow, and God only knew how, his landlady had become an integral member of his life. One of the only integral members of his life, really. She had been there for him when he most needed a friend, and he was grateful to her. Yes, she occasionally overshared, she wasn’t shy about laying on guilt trips, and she always implied things that just weren’t true about John and his relationship to a certain curly-haired man, but she was quiet when John felt the need to talk, and would hold his hand in her smaller one when he couldn’t find the words, and made sure he ate when he couldn’t be bothered to feed himself. She took care of him without coddling him and she was possibly the only reason he hadn’t completely faded away into the shadows. 

So, what does someone give to the person who saved you from yourself? Something that said, “I really thought about you and what would make you happy”. He wondered if a pack of scratch-offs would be inappropriate. She did enjoy them, so it would be something that made her happy, but did that set the tone that he was trying to convey? He would much rather not have to say anything in actual words. Communicating non-verbally was much better for him, even though it didn’t always get his message across. He just wasn’t good with words, especially the ones that were needed for sharing emotions of any sort. 

Perhaps a tea cozy.

He’d need to think about it more, obviously. Maybe she would start peppering in hints about things she wanted. She would do that when she needed help with things around her flat, so maybe if he paid a bit more attention, she’d let something slip. 

He looked back down at his list, the fingers of his left hand tapping a rhythm against the tabletop, as he debated adding another name to the list. He grabbed his mug and gulped down the lukewarm tea, unconsciously pulling a face at the temperature, before he put it down and grabbed his pen again.

He wrote down the last name on his list.

_Sherlock_

Another name that he really had no reason to write down, for several reasons, but he liked seeing his friend’s name written in his hand. His name looked good on the list of those important enough to consider buying gifts for.

His gift was the easiest and hardest to purchase, though.

Flowers for his grave. 

John was the only one to ever put flowers on his grave. Occasionally Mrs. Hudson would accompany him and they would leave flowers together, but otherwise, it was just him. He had thought Molly at least would visit, but if she did, she never left anything behind. Everyone grieved in their own way, he supposed. He knew he was the only one though because when he would go to visit, his would be the only ones there from his previous visit, and he would trade out the dead ones for a freshly cut bouquet.

The irony of replacing dead things with freshly dead things to commemorate a dead person wasn’t lost on him and he thought Sherlock would appreciate that if nothing else. John knew the flowers were more for him than for Sherlock, a way for him to process his grief at losing his friend, but he still made an effort to pick flowers that he thought Sherlock would have enjoyed. 

He had bought a book on the Victorian language of flowers and would use them to leave little messages for Sherlock by the blooms he would bring. He knew Sherlock would have figured out their meanings if he were still alive, and since he had never had the chance to bring him flowers while he was alive, at least he could do it now. He would make a special bouquet for Christmas. 

Actually, he should go for a visit soon. He would see if Mrs. Hudson would like to join him. Perhaps he would leave white lilies for love, with red carnations for heartache, if he could get them from the florist.


	10. Candle

It had been an impulse decision to wander into the church. He wasn’t sure what drew him in. Perhaps the bells ringing, or the sight of the large stone facade. It sparked a flame of nostalgia in him, and he made his way inside without conscious thought. 

He hadn’t willing been inside a church since he was dragged there as a teenager by his grandmother, and even though he no longer believed, he found himself oddly comforted by the sight of the mostly empty pews and the scent of incense blended with the greenery of the fresh Christmas decorations that filled the space.

He found himself in front of the array of candles on their tray and his eyes gazed over the candles that were currently lit, their small flames flickering their orange glow over the area. Muscle memory had him reaching out for an unlit matchstick, borrowing the flame from a previously lit candle, and he sought out an unlit wick. He held his matchstick to the fresh votive and thought of Sherlock while the wick bloomed to life before him. Removing the matchstick, he blew the flame out, then turned his attention back to the candle he had lit. 

His mind wandered back to his visit to Sherlock’s grave as he watched the small flame wave flicker and move. Mrs. Hudson’s hip had been bothering her that morning. She had stayed home to rest it, but had insisted that John leave Joy downstairs with her to keep her company. He agreed after taking her for a quick walk and had left the two of them sitting happily on the couch watching some game show, Joy’s head resting atop Mrs. Hudson’s thighs as she scratched her ears and waved John out of the door.

The weather had been mild enough that he elected to walk the forty minutes to Sherlock’s grave. It gave him time to think over anything he might want to tell the man, and he usually had a lot to say. Things that he hadn’t told anyone before. Things that he hadn’t been able to say out loud. Things that he’d never get the chance to say, so he reckoned he might as well say them now. 

He walked through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the cemetery, his eyes automatically cataloging the presence of a black car parked on the other side of the street that he quickly ignored because it obviously meant nothing, and made his way towards the black stone that marked his friend’s resting place.

He stood staring at the grave for several moments before his brain registered what was different about the familiar scene before him. His flowers had been removed, and in their place were purple hyacinths and white tulips. They were perhaps a day or two old.

John couldn’t remember what those flowers were meant to mean and perhaps they didn’t mean anything. Perhaps the mourner had simply picked flowers they liked and left them behind. Perhaps Molly had finally come to visit.

He wasn’t comfortable completely removing them, so instead, he simply made room for his own bouquet to join the one already there. 

The answer came to him as he stood watching the candle in the quiet church.

The flowers. They were apologies and pleas for forgiveness. 

He wondered who left them. Who needed forgiveness.


	11. Dashing Through the Snow

The Tube was significantly behind schedule, some mechanical issue, and by the time he had finally made it off the platform at a stop that three away from his destination, he was already late for his first patient. The mobile reception underground was complete shite, so he hadn’t even been able to call into work to let them know he was late and on his way.

He called as soon as he had signal but could tell by the harried reply of the receptionist that today wasn’t going to be a good day for anyone. 

Every attempt he had made towards getting a taxi was futile and he kept walking as quickly as he could, his satchel slung over his good shoulder as he tore through the London streets. 

It was bitterly cold and the wind whipping over him cut through the layers of his coat and the gloves on his hand. He was thankful he had remembered to grab his scarf in his rush out of the door that morning. He had had to ask Mrs. Hudson to take Joy out for her morning walk after he had woken late for the first time in years. He hadn’t bothered with an alarm clock because his body always woke in time, but apparently not that morning.

He wasn’t surprised when he felt the first snowflakes hit his face. At least it wasn’t rain, he supposed. 

When he was about five minutes from the clinic, he felt a familiar tingle on the back of his neck. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He felt like someone was watching him.

He picked up his pace, letting his eyes scan his surroundings as his ears took in the sounds of the city for anything unusual. It was instinct, ones he hadn’t used, but that he fell into without thought.

He knew someone was following him. He couldn’t figure out who or what, and he wasn’t sure of the intent, but as he dashed up the steps of the clinic building, the snow falling heavier than before, he couldn’t ignore the quiet thrill of adrenaline that rushed through his veins at the prospect of something happening. Nothing had happened to him in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the late update and the short chapter. Anxiety sucks. Thank you for reading!


	12. Visiting

John had not expected to see Greg Lestrade sitting in his living room when he returned after his evening walk with Joy. He was sitting on the couch, blunt fingers tapping anxiously against the teacup in his hands that Mrs. Hudson must have supplied. 

John’s feet came to a standstill in the doorway as he took in the features of the man he hadn’t seen in several months. It wasn’t so much that they weren’t friends, really. John had forgiven him for the part he played in Sherlock’s downfall, eventually, when it was too obvious to ignore that Greg beat himself up for that role he played. When John had been able to look back with a head somewhat calmer, he could acknowledge that Greg was following orders, and didn’t believe that Sherlock was what they were claiming him to be. 

He had known Sherlock for real, just as John had. He just hadn’t had the luxury of being able to defy anyone who believed otherwise.

Still, they didn’t exactly make them friends. They had been friendly, when Sherlock was there to bring them together in solidarity against his antics, but his loss had left a gap that was just a bit too wide to bridge without a leap that neither man seemed willing to make yet.

Joy whined at being stuck, causing John to blink into action to remove her leash, and Greg to look up. He stood as soon as he saw John. He put the teacup down on the table before looking back to John, then his eyes flicked down to Joy with a surprised raise of his eyebrows.

“Cute dog,” Greg commented as she bounded up to him in greeting, tail wagging wildly behind her as she sniffed his legs and shoes. Greg bent down to offer a hand to sniff, which she accepted, before he scratched her head.

“This is Joy,” John replied as he forced his feet forward.

He put the leash on the hook by the door, then tugged off his gloves and scarf and coat before placing them on their respective hooks, as well. 

“Tea?” John asked, instinctual etiquette kicking in without his consent. Greg nodded and John made his way into the kitchen to prepare two cups. He filled the kettle and 

“What brings you here, Greg?” John asked, deciding that there was no reason to not just jump right in to whatever was happening. He didn’t think that it had been Greg that had been following him that morning, but he couldn’t discount the man either.

Greg had moved to sit on the couch and was petting Joy when he returned. He held out a mug, and the DI took it with a quiet word of thanks. Joy went to curl up on her bed since she was no longer being petted. John watched the DI with as passive an expression as he could manage as he settled into his armchair. 

Greg took a sip of his tea, then cleared his throat. 

“I have something for you. Something I thought you might like to have.”

John’s eyebrows rose in question. Greg reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small DVD case. John took it from him and looked at it, but it had no identifying label.

“It’s some of the footage from the video Sherlock made for your birthday. Parts that didn’t make the cut. Bit funnier, I thought.”

John stared at the DVD in silence before Greg cleared his throat again. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have…,” he began, but John cut him off.

“No, no. It’s fine. Thank you.”

Greg looked at him and gave a small nod. He finished his tea quickly and put the empty mug down on the table.

“Well, I think I’ll be off, then. Need to get some Christmas shopping finished.”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks for stopping by. And this,” John said, waving the DVD he still clutched tightly in his hand.

Greg stood and John stood to follow him to the flat door. He offered his hand and Greg took it in a firm shake before heading down the stairs. John watched him and called out before Greg rounded the corner.

“You weren’t around the clinic any time today, were you?” he asked before he could stop himself. 

Greg turned and looked up at him. “No. Why?”

John shook his head with a wry smile. “Thought I saw you, but I guess it was just someone who looked like you,” he lied. 

Greg nodded slowly, clearly not accepting the lie, but not willing to push it either. 

“We should meet up for drinks, soon,” Greg said, and John nodded. 

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” he replied. He didn’t think they ever would, but he didn’t want to outright say no.

Greg nodded and made his way out of the building. 

John closed the flat door, went into the kitchen, and pulled down the bottle of scotch he had on a top shelf. He poured a glass before he went back to the living room and put the DVD into the player. He settled onto the couch and Joy stood with a stretch and a shake before she came to join him. She hopped up onto the couch beside him, circled once, then plopped down with her head in his lap. He scratched her ears.

“Let’s see what Sherlock really thought about me, then,” he said before pressing play and taking a sip of the amber liquid swirling in his glass.

The sound of Sherlock’s voice hit him with the force of a lorry to the chest. He had nearly forgotten how deep it was, the cadence and posh accent, and he had to close his eyes a moment to breathe. By the end of the all too short video, Sherlock promised to be with him soon, and John wished that were true. 

Two years later and he still wished for the miracle he had begged Sherlock for as he stood as his grave the first time. 

But he didn’t believe in miracles. Not anymore.


	13. Storm

There was a distinct edge to the headache that lurked behind John’s eyes as he finished with the last of his patients for the day. He had indulged a bit too much after Greg’s unexpected visit and the video message. Sherlock had haunted his dreams the night before, preventing him from getting any rest as his mind kept providing different scenarios in which John failed to protect Sherlock. 

He dreamed of shimmering water in a darkened pool and woke with the smell of chlorine still in the air. He dreamed of circus assassins and bomb vests and a man with dead eyes.

He dreamed of the unrepentant force of gravity and woke with the memory of another pair of dead eyes. 

He didn’t go back to sleep after that. He couldn’t rest.

Joy had curled next to him during his nightmares and he had pet her head and scratched her ears while his eyes refused to shut. 

When he was finally able to leave after he finished his paperwork and wished the nursing staff a good evening with what little energy he had left, his headache had managed to magnify and wrapped around his head, squeezing his brain relentlessly. All he wanted was to get home as quickly as possible, pop a couple of paracetamol, and sleep until the next morning.

Naturally, he was to be denied that because John Watson never got what he wanted out of life. As soon as his feet hit the pavement outside the clinic, he felt that tingle on the back of his neck again. That old instinct that told him he was being watched. He turned to walk towards the closest Tube station, his headache receding as his senses kicked into overdrive. 

The feeling followed him onto the platform and disappeared as he boarded his train, but was back as soon as he made it out of the Underground and onto Baker Street. 

He saw it out of the corner of his eye and felt his legs come to a stop without his permission. The quiet black car pulled up to him and came to a stop. John breathed hard through his nose, his muscles tensing as he felt waves of aggression and anger crash through him, his hands automatically forming fists at his sides. 

The door opened in silent demand and John hesitated several moments before he took one more deep, angry breath through his nose and climbed into the back of the car, slamming the door behind himself, before turning to look at the man sitting beside him.

“Why the fuck are you following me?” John bit out.

Rage was rippling under his skin like a thing alive as his eyes took in the sight Mycroft Holmes. He looked the same as when he last saw him two years ago as he raged at him for selling his brother out to a madman. As soulless and uncompromising as ever in a three-piece suit and shiny black shoes.

Mycroft watched him, his hand twirling his idiotic umbrella on the floor of the car, before he smirked at him.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Dr. Watson.”

“Fuck you, Mycroft. What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“I think we’re well past the time for talking. I have nothing to say to you.”

“Perhaps not, but I have something to say to you.”

The bastard hadn’t even bothered to show up at his own brother’s funeral. There was nothing that John could possibly want to hear from him. He would be perfectly content to never see him again. 

“The winds are about to change, Dr. Watson. A storm is coming. There have been threats to the Kingdom that can no longer be ignored. A...specialist is being recalled to the country and should be arriving soon.”

“I have absolutely no idea why you’re telling me this, why you think I could possibly care, or why you’re here.”

“It’s not your job to know, Dr. Watson. It’s your job to do your duty when called upon. And you will be called upon. Very soon.”

“For what.”

“To care, Dr. Watson.”

John frowned, hard. 

He hated the way the ponce spoke in fucking riddles. Why couldn’t he just be straightforward and say whatever it was he seemed to expect from John so John could tell him to fuck off without any inconvenient curiosity because there was no fucking way he was doing anything for Mycroft Holmes. 

Emotions flooded through John as he threw open the car door and climbed out without a backward glance, his heart thudding hard in his chest.


	14. Hope

John was fuming as he climbed the seventeen steps to 221B after his conversation, if it could be called that, with that slimy bastard Mycroft. 

Who the hell did he think he was? What game could he possibly be playing? There was nothing that could convince John to ever do anything for him, ever again. That bullshit about duty. John had done his duty for his country and had a hole in his shoulder and an inability to ever perform surgery again thanks to that duty. He had a fucking medal as proof of that duty completed. He didn’t owe his country, and certainly didn’t owe Mycroft Holmes, any more of his time or consideration.

Joy bounded up to him upon his entrance, completely uncaring about his sour mood, and wagged her tail happily as he gave her a distracted pat on the head. He tossed his satchel and coat onto his chair as he grumbled under his breath about poncy gits with superiority complexes and compensation issues.

“Work that bad, then?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice suddenly filtered out of his kitchen and John swore loudly.

Why were there constantly people inside his flat without his knowing?! He forced himself to take a calming breath before he walked into his kitchen. Mrs, Hudson was putting some kind of dish into his oven and there was a fresh plate of shortbread on the tabletop.

“Mrs. Hudson, you didn’t have to make dinner,” John said.

“Pish. I had made too much on accident and figured you could use a good meal,” his landlady replied and John shook his head with a disbelieving snort. No one in the world accidentally overcooked more than Martha Hudson, if one was to ever believe that excuse.

He smiled, though, because he did appreciate the thought and he would have most likely had toast if she hadn’t intervened. He already felt his earlier aggravation fading away and instead just felt tired.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” she smiled with a pat on his arm. “Joy and I went for a little walk earlier, so she should be good for the night. She’s such a good dog.”

“Yeah, she is. Thanks for keeping her company,” John said. 

Mrs. Hudson smiled again, then made her way out of the kitchen and into his living room. 

“That should be done in about 30 minutes. You have a good night, John.”

“Goodnight,” he called. He heard the door close as he filled the kettle for tea. 

The rest of the evening passed in relative peace and he managed a rare full night of sleep in spite of the unwelcome reappearance of Mycroft Holmes.

*

The next day found John shopping for Christmas gifts. The clinic’s holiday party was coming up and he hadn’t managed to pick up anything yet. So, after work, he had made his way to the small chocolate shop where he bought gifts for his co-workers and a larger one for Harry. He went ahead and bought a small assortment of truffles for Mrs. Hudson, as well. He’d give them to her when he got back as a thank you for the meal last night.

Thanks to an early end to his shift, it was still light outside when he finished his shopping, and he decided to walk for a bit before heading back home. The shop was actually rather close to the cemetery where Sherlock was laid to rest, and since he was close anyway, he decided to make his way there.

He knew it wasn’t maybe the most healthy thing to do, but he often found himself there when he had something on his mind and wanted to talk. Sherlock listened just as well in his grave as he did to John when he was alive. He figured it was only fair that he got to talk to Sherlock when he wasn’t there considering all the times Sherlock talked to him when he hadn’t been there. In some weird way, it seemed to work out in his head. 

Besides, he had a lot on his mind, and talking about things helped, sometimes.

When he arrived at the cemetery and made his way to Sherlock’s grave, however, all of his whirling thoughts came to a standstill as he noticed the fresh bouquet of flowers resting on the black stone.

Daffodils and some other yellow flowers that he didn’t recognize. 

“Where on earth did someone find daffodils this time of year?” he asked the black stone with a frown. “They aren’t in any of the flower shops I’ve been to.” 

He sighed, running a hand down his face, before letting his gaze flick over the surrounding area. The flowers were placed there recently. He didn’t expect to actually see anyone, but he wondered all the same who they were. He had thought of Molly originally, but maybe they were from Greg? Though perhaps they were from some random fan. 

He didn’t see anyone or anything out of place. He frowned down at the stone again, at the flowers left there, and took out his phone to take a photo of the bouquet to try and figure out what they were later. 

John didn’t feel like talking much, after that, and after a couple of minutes of silent contemplation, he turned and made his way back home.

When he got back to the flat he pulled down his book of flowers and meanings. After several minutes of searching through pages, he finally found the one he was searching for. A yellow marguerite. _I come soon_ , the caption read. John flipped over to the daffodil next. _Rebirth or new beginnings._

Rebirth? Returning? Was it just a coincidence that those flowers were chosen? Did they mean something or nothing?

Mycroft’s words from the day before came unbidden to his mind.

_“The winds are about to change, Dr. Watson. A storm is coming. There have been threats to the Kingdom that can no longer be ignored. A...specialist is being recalled to the country and should be arriving soon.”_

A specialist being recalled? Why would John care? Why would he come to tell John something like that? Who could be recalled and from what? 

He tried to ignore it, but the thing growing in John’s chest felt horribly like hope and he didn’t know what to do with such an emotion anymore.


	15. Jolly

John was walking at his usual pace, hands held loosely at his sides, as he made his way down the pavement. Londoners were out in droves thanks to the approaching holiday, crowding around storefronts and cafes, causing foot traffic to occasionally come to a standstill as people had to maneuver around. 

Buildings were decorated with wreaths and fairy lights shining in windows. Trees trimmed in ribbons and baubles stood out in window displays and John couldn’t help thinking that it was all a bit much, really. There was a Father Christmas in one of the windows that he supposed was meant to look jolly and cheerful, but instead looked rather depressing, in his faded robes and fake beard. 

As he was passing by a cafe that was boasting seasonally festive drinks pretending to be coffee, he noticed him. A man, about twenty yards ahead and walking through the crosswalk, with dark hair and a billowing coat. John felt his body come to a standstill in the middle of the crowd, causing several people to swear at his sudden lack of movement, and one body slammed into his shoulder, jostling him forward and into motion again as his brain kicked back on. 

He shook his head at himself, even as his feet started to speed up, his eyes locked on the dark head of hair that was now further away. John knew it was impossible, that it had to just be a resemblance and nothing more, but his body followed instinctively. The man never looked back, and John lost sight of him several times, but just when he was about to give up, he’d spot the swirl of a greatcoat again and pick up speed. He got stuck at crosswalks and behind holiday shoppers, but he kept going, trying to catch up and just see. 

John’s heart thudded hard in his chest as he finally began to catch up to the man and he barely kept his feet from running forward as the man started to turn as he stood at a crosswalk. John was there, he was going to see him, he knew it had to be him, it had to, there was no one else it could possibly be with those glossy curls and that ridiculous coat and John reached out a hand to grab the man’s arm when there was a high-pitched noise in his ear. 

John frowned, his hand going up to his ear to try to block the noise, but it simply grew louder and more agitated sounding. The light changed and the man took back off as John stood there, his ears ringing, as he tried to block the sound and call out for the man to stop! Please! Wait! 

_Bark!_

John jolted up, his chest heaving, as Joy whined and pushed her head into his body.

John groaned, lowering his head into his hands as he pulled his knees up. Fuck. His heart was pounding, his throat raw from where he had been screaming for the man to wait, and it took everything in him to not scream again in frustration. 

Joy was pawing at him now and John forced himself to steady his breathing as reached out a hand to reassure his dog. 

“I’m okay, girl. Just a bad dream.”

Joy whined again, resting her head on his bed as he scratched behind her ears, breathing slowly, in and out. In and out. His heart rate slowed, the tight band that had constricted his chest easing its hold on him, and he opened his eyes as the last of the dream faded from his mind.

He looked over at his clock and sighed. Three in the morning. Damnit. He turned, pushing himself off the bed, and pulled on his dressing gown to combat the chill that had settled in the flat before he went down to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and sat at the table. The sound of Joy’s nails clicking down the stairs as she followed after him was sharp in the quiet of the flat and he gave a small smile as she made her way over to him and curled up on the floor at his feet.

“Sorry to wake you up. I didn’t mean to interrupt your sleep, Joy-girl.”

She huffed and relaxed further, accepting or waving off his apologies he supposed, and he sighed in reply. 

The kettle clicked and he forced himself up to make the cup of tea that he bothered to come down for, the movements methodical and mindless, and when it was ready he sat back down. Joy shifted her head to rest on his feet and he curled his toes at the warmth that suffused them. 

His mind wandered back into his dream and he frowned. Fucking Mycroft. John hadn’t dreamed of Sherlock in a way that hadn’t ended with him lying on the pavement outside Bart’s in over a year. It was his fault John was suddenly seeing him in a dream, alive, and John was exhausted. A few cryptic words from the bastard and he was ready to believe anything, it would seem. His subconscious was, anyway. 

John sat at his kitchen table, Joy’s head keeping him warm, his thoughts racing and driftless at the same time, as his tea went cold and untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm posting this so late! It's been a crazy day. Thanks for reading! 💜


	16. Twinkling

John had managed to fall asleep for an hour or two at the kitchen table, which was truly unfortunate for his neck and shoulder. At the time, he supposed that if that had to happen, at least it was on the day when he didn’t have to work. There was the office party that evening, but that had been plenty of time for paracetamol to kick in, and he was relaxed enough after spending the day picking up around the flat, playing with Joy, and eating more of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits when she came up for tea.

There was a general cheer of welcome as he made his way into the restaurant where they had booked one of the smaller back rooms for their holiday do. John gave a half-hearted wave with his free hand before walking to the back table where gift bags were perched haphazardly. He added his bag of gifts to the lot and when he turned one of the nurses was holding out a glass of something festive-looking out for him.

He took it with a smile and a nod. He sniffed at the ruby-red drink before taking a small sip. Gin and cranberry and something fizzy sparked on his tongue. It was a bit too sweet for his tastes, but he wasn’t going to complain when he hadn’t been the one to pay for it.

John made his way around the room, taking in the decorations of fairy lights that twinkled cheerily from the ceiling and the Christmas tree that was decked out beside the food table. Soft Christmas songs played over the sound system, but it wasn’t too loud to discourage all the conversations that were happening, so John found himself talking and listening to different coworkers as he picked at the plate that he had made from the hors d'oeuvres table that lined the side of the room. 

One of the nurses, a new one that John couldn’t seem to ever remember the name of, kept attempting to engage him in conversation and plying him with more of the gin cocktails. He couldn’t help but think she was flirting with him, with the way her eyes kept looking up at him through her long lashes and she kept bringing attention to her mouth by sipping at the dainty straw from her own drink. He smiled and interacted with her whenever she pushed into his space, but he was silently starting to wonder when he could leave without seeming completely rude. 

He managed about thirty minutes of conversations before the nurse made her way over to him again. He had never thought of flirting as being aggressive before, but there was no other way to describe the woman’s actions towards him. Which was odd, considering he wasn’t exactly the most sociable person in the room. Or the clinic. Or ever. But every time he shook her off for a few minutes, she seemed to come right back, stronger than before. 

John sighed internally, a smile on his face externally, as he finally gave in and talked to the nurse, Mary, her name was, for several minutes, in the hopes that giving her some of the attention she seemed desperate for would allow him to enjoy the rest of the evening in relative peace.

She was pretty, he could admit, and rather charming in an aggressive kind of way, and he didn’t completely hate the ten minutes they spent talking. She supplied him without another drink and when John was half-way through it he realized he was hovering rather close to the edge of overindulging in alcohol, more so than he had meant to, given it was a work event. 

His head was feeling delightfully fuzzy, his limbs a bit detached from the rest of him, and he tried to remember how many drinks he actually managed to have. He probably should eat some more. 

By the end of the evening, he was smiling and relaxed, and surprised to find that he had rather enjoyed himself. The chocolates he gifted everyone seemed to be accepted well and he ended up leaving the party with his own collection of gifts, including a rather surprising bottle of good wine. 

The idea of getting on Tube while more than half-drunk wasn’t at all appealing, so he hailed a cab and a true Christmas miracle was performed.

“Ha! Miracles do happen,” John chuckled to himself as he climbed into the cab that had pulled up to the kerb in front of him.

The ride was slow through the traffic of the evening, with the holiday shoppers and late-night parties, but he didn’t mind. He rested his head back against the seat cushion and closed his eyes, letting the hum of the vehicle wash over him and put him in a hazy state of mind.

It took the cabbie raising his voice to wake him from the doze he fell into and he tipped him far more than he usually would in appreciation for the man not murdering him for his negligence. And, you know, holiday spirit or something.

He climbed the stairs and made his way into the flat. The fire was lit, flames dancing merrily in the grate, and he definitely hadn’t left that unattended when he left and the light was on in the kitchen. 

“Did Joy keep you company, Mrs. Hudson?” John called out towards the kitchen when Joy hadn’t come running as he opened the door. 

There was bark and the scrape of a chair being pushed back in response and John smiled as Joy came running up to him. He stopped to scratch her ears with his free hand, halfway to the kitchen, when the light was partially blocked and he turned to look up at his landlady.

“Hello, John.”

John’s smile fell as his muscles went lax and the bag in his hand fell to the ground. The heavy thunk of a glass bottle hitting the floor filled the silence of the room, but John heard nothing but a deep resonate baritone reverberating in his skull and the heavy thud of his own heartbeat.


	17. Let Nothing You Dismay

John stared at the obvious hallucination standing in his kitchen doorway. He had clearly had too many of those cranberry gin things and needed to sleep off the alcohol. His heart was thumping so hard in his chest that it hurt and he closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep breath, before opening them again. 

The vision was still there. Joy was wagging her tail, oblivious to the fact that her owner was clearly having a psychotic break, and really, it had been a long time coming. John should be happy that he lasted as long as he did.

The problem, though, was that Joy had decided that since John was no longer giving her attention, she would go to someone who would, and hallucinations weren’t supposed to be able to interact with people’s dogs, and that one was. 

He was numb. Anger, disbelief, frustration, hurt, relief, rage all simmered under the surface of his skin, but all he felt in that moment was numb.

Reality came crashing back in, all of John’s senses switching on to high alert, and it was all there. Underneath the fresh pine of the trees and boughs that decorated the flat, there was that scent that had always been in the background of 221B, but had faded after two years. Something citrusy, some kind of cologne or aftershave, John had never figured it out. His eyes scanned over the man in front of him. 

Flesh and bones. Living flesh and bones. John could see him breathing. He was thinner. His hair a bit longer, but still dark and curly. Clean-shaven. His stance just a touch off, like he was trying to keep weight off a leg. 

Exactly the same as the last time he saw him, alive, in a lab. Not at all like he really saw him last with his head broken, blood seeping into the pavement under his body.

He was wearing his fucking coat.

There was no blood on the coat. 

For some reason, that was what John latched on to. 

“Glad to see you still have your coat,” he said, his voice hoarse as he pushed it out past a dry throat.

Maybe it wasn’t the same coat. He probably went and bought a new one. The hospital wouldn’t let him have it after. John had asked. So, maybe it was the same coat and he had had it drycleaned wherever the fuck he’d been the last two years.

John suddenly felt exhausted. Numb and exhausted. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, so John bent down to pick up the bag that had dropped. 

“At least the wine bottle didn’t break. I think I’ve had enough for tonight, though,” he mumbled to himself, then stood and walked to the kitchen, pushing his way past his dead flatmate, his shoulder brushing against solid, living warmth, and he put the bag on the kitchen table. Went into the automatic motions of making tea, because fuck if he didn’t know what else to do at that moment.

Joy followed after him, whining softly as she seemed to catch on to his mood, and John bent to pat her head to reassure her she hadn’t done anything wrong. He put the kettle on to boil, then went to fill Joy’s water bowl. Anything to keep from looking at the man that was now standing in the kitchen with him.

“John.”

“You know, you’re a bit early if you’re here to haunt me and show me the mistakes of my Christmas pasts. Or I suppose you’re a little late, considering you missed the last two Christmases. I have to admit, though, you look good for being a dead man.”

“Not dead,” Sherlock spoke, so quietly John almost missed it, and John felt his fist slam down on the tabletop without his permission.

“Yes, I can fucking see that,” he spoke, deadly calm and quiet. 

John made a sound in his throat that he refused to think was anything like a sob and took a deep breath, reining all those emotions that raged through him back into something manageable.

Except none of this was manageable. 

It was surreal and John’s head was no longer fuzzy with alcohol, but swimming in endorphins and those emotions he had locked in a box in his mind for two years. He had to be dreaming, except maybe it was more of a nightmare than a dream. 

But it was real, and he knew it was real, and he kind of wished that maybe it was a dream after all, because the hurt flooding through him was nearly suffocating him. 

“John, I-,” Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

“How? Why? What are you doing here?” he asked the man, this stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all, that stood in his kitchen.

“I need your help.”

John huffed and turned his eyes away from Sherlock, unable to look at him anymore.

“You need my help. So you just thought you’d show up in my home after two years. Two years, Sherlock.”

John was losing his grip on his forced calm; could feel the anger bubbling back up as Sherlock stood there, silently watching him and reading who knew what in his face and his stance and the stain on his shirt or the state of his shoes.

“Why?”

“There’s been a threat against,” Sherlock began, and John cut him off again.

“No, Sherlock. No. Why did you do it? Why did you jump off that...how? How could you do that?” The _to me_ was left unsaid, but John suspected they both heard it. 

Sherlock shifted his stance, and John noted once again how carefully he was holding his weight. 

“It was necessary.”

“Necessary?”

“I had to do it. He threatened Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.”

John looked at Sherlock; forced himself to nod. He could believe that. Sherlock had the best poker face John had ever seen and it was just as clear now as it ever was in the past. Sherlock cared for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, no matter what bullshit came out of his mouth about caring being a disadvantage. Except, maybe, for him it was. He had cared and jumped off a building to presumably save the lives of those very people. 

“You could have told me. A word. One word from you, Sherlock, that’s all I would have needed.” 

He had mourned for two years. For two years he lived with nightmares of his friend jumping, his body on the ground, his body in the ground. He had visited his grave countless times and left flowers, talked to him, confessed things to him that he never told anyone else.

John felt himself deflate. The anger, the hurt, even the love he felt for Sherlock, it all faded away and left him desolate. He pulled out a kitchen chair and fell into it. Joy rested her head in his lap as soon as he settled and he absently scratched her ears. Across from him, Sherlock carefully pulled out the other chair and sat down.

“I wanted to,” Sherlock spoke carefully. With more care than John could ever recall him speaking with before. 

“Why didn’t you? I could have helped protect Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade is a DI. He would have been able to protect himself if needed.”

“John, if they got even a hint that you knew, that you thought I was alive, they would have killed you. They would have killed you all.”

John brought his elbows up on the table and leaned his head down into his hands as he stared at the tabletop. So, it wasn’t just them. It was John, too. John was the liability. John was the cause. He choked off a bitter laugh. Of course, he would be the cause of his own heartache. Everything was always his fault. He was filled with dismay, but honestly, it just felt like most days of his life.

“Where have you been?”

“Putting an end to it all.”

“And are you finished?”

“I’m here.”

John nodded. It wasn’t an answer, but then when did Sherlock ever give a straight answer?

It was silent then between them. Joy was a warm and calming presence at his side and he realized after several minutes that he never finished making his tea. He didn’t want it any, though. He put his hands down on the table and stood up, dislodging Joy’s head from his lap. 

“You’re welcome to stay if you need to. Everything is in your room as you left it. There should be clean linens in the closet.”

He could feel Sherlock’s eyes watching him silently as he turned and made his way up to his room, Joy on his heels, but he refused to look back. He wasn’t sure what look he would see on the man’s face and more importantly, he wasn’t sure what Sherlock would see in his.


	18. Gifts

John stared at his ceiling for a long time, not listening for any noises downstairs because he didn’t know if he wanted Sherlock to stay that night or go back to wherever he had been. He felt unmoored as his thoughts drifted from one thing to another and he was unable to latch onto any thought for longer than a few moments. 

Disjointed memories floated through his consciousness. Moments with Sherlock, moments without Sherlock, deserts, and the London streets. There was no rhyme or reason to where his thoughts went and he wondered briefly if that was what it felt like when a person went mad. He didn’t feel like he could trust his own thoughts and reality was fluid at best.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep because when the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s screams reached his ears, the light leaking through his curtains was the pale grey and pinks of early morning. 

Joy jumped off the bed, barking madly at the scream, and when John opened the door she rushed down the stairs to defend their landlady. John followed after her at a more sedate pace, knowing what he would find, and thus wasn’t surprised when he came upon the scene taking place in his living room.

Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway with her hands covering her mouth, an array of biscuits spread all over the floor at her feet beside a fallen plate that had managed to land on the rug and not break, while Joy sniffed and tried to get as many as she could. Sherlock sat in his armchair, one long leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled under his chin, in a pose so familiar to John that he could almost believe that it was two years ago and Sherlock had never fallen from a building. 

John whistled and Joy ran over to him, leaving the rest of the biscuits. His whistle drew Mrs. Hudson’s attention, but he was watching Sherlock, who seemed to be ignoring them, except that John noticed the tensing of his shoulders which betrayed him.

“John,” Mrs. Hudson said after pulling her hands down from her mouth.

“You see him, too, then. I won’t lie, for a moment last night I wasn’t sure if it was just my imagination.”

“I can’t believe this. How are you here?” 

“Something about needing help, he said,” John replied when Sherlock remained quiet.

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue, bending down to pick up the plate and fallen biscuits, then walked over to the armchair and tossed the plate down on the table. Sherlock continued to sit quietly, pretending to ignore them. 

“Sherlock Holmes, how could you?”

“Necessity.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m still not completely sure, but you’re welcome to ask him again.”

“I don’t care why he did it. I want to know how he could do that to you,” Mrs. Hudson spoke, righteous anger on his behalf in her tone , and John couldn’t help the rush of affection he felt for his landlady.

“It doesn’t matter, now. He did, and now he’s back, and apparently needs help.”

Mrs. Hudson snorted, turning away from Sherlock and coming up to John. She patted his cheek with a gentle hand. “I’m going to make tea. I think you’re going to need it.”

John offered her a smile in thanks and she left for her flat after another glance at Sherlock.

“You will be talking when I get back up here.”

With that demand, she was gone, and John turned his attention back to Sherlock. Joy was now sitting on the floor with her head in his lap and one large hand was petting her head. John felt a flash of irritation at his traitorous dog, but quickly forgave her because she was a sucker for anyone who would show her any kind of affection. 

She was a terrible guard dog, but she was a great emotional support animal.

John tied his dressing gown tighter around himself, no longer able to ignore the chill in the flat, as he crossed to his armchair and sat down across from his not-dead flatmate and former friend.

Were they still friends? Could they be?

He wasn’t sure. 

“You owe her an explanation. She’s been heartbroken,” John said after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock looked at him for the first time since he came into the room. 

“My explanation for her is the same as for you. It was necessary.”

“So you said. You still need to tell her something.”

Sherlock waved a hand like he was waving the statement away. 

“She can wait. There’s a pattern here that I’m missing.”

John frowned, his brows pulling down at the flippant attitude. 

“No. You need to talk to her and to apologize. Because what you did was not okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s brows arched up at John’s angry tone.

“It was necessary, John. She doesn’t want apologies or excuses.”

“You’re right she doesn’t want excuses, but she deserves an apology.”

“We have more important things to do than worry about her right now. We need to-,” but John refused to be cut off right then.

“‘We’ don’t need to do anything. ‘We’ aren’t doing anything right now. You are going to talk with her because she deserves more than you ignoring her. You have no idea what she’s been through.”

“John, we’re wasting time here.” Sherlock jumped up, causing Joy to jump up as well, and he began pacing as he always did before, the faded colors of the rug marking his path,

John stood up, frustration and disbelief and hurt still coursing through him. 

“Damnit, Sherlock, you cannot treat people like this! You can’t jump off buildings and then just waltz back in after two years and expect everything to be the same as it was before. You can’t just ignore people’s feelings and expect them to forgive you the second you show up!”

John was aware that he might not just be talking about Mrs. Hudson anymore, but he also couldn’t stop.

“You were dead, Sherlock, for two years. You just left. You said you had to, and I’m trying to understand that, I am. But you can’t...you can’t…,” John’s voice faltered and he dropped his head, unable to look at Sherlock, who had stopped his pacing.

Sherlock stood by the fireplace, silent. John could feel his eyes on him and just couldn’t look up. So much for bravery.

“John, I…,” Sherlock started, but then Mrs. Hudson came into the room, tea tray in hand, and Sherlock stopped talking. 

John finally looked up, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s directly for the first time since he came back into his life, and Sherlock looked away. He turned and rushed past Mrs. Hudson without another word.

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly at him when he was gone to who knew where.

“This is a gift, John. I know it hurts right now, but so few people get true second chances with those they love. It’s okay to be angry, but let it go, and then talk to him.” 

She put the tray down on the table and started to pour tea for them both. John accepted the cup absently as he sat back down in his armchair.

He wasn’t so sure Sherlock coming back from the dead was a gift. He knew he should feel grateful for the chance he’s seemingly been given. An opportunity to make things right, to speak truths and honesty, but he couldn’t help the feeling that burned sickly in his stomach. Sherlock had thrown it all away before. He said it was to save him, to save them, and he believed him, but if he did it once, he could do it again. John didn’t know if he could let Sherlock in again like that. He didn’t think he could survive another fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the late update. My laptop was appropriated for most of the day and I just got time to work on this. I'm not 100% in love with this chapter, but it's the best I've got for now. Thank you so much for reading!


	19. Faith

John wasn’t sure how he made it through his workday, but somehow he managed to muddle along, correctly diagnose patients (he’s pretty sure), avoid the aggressive flirting of the new nurse, and fill out his paperwork in a way that didn’t end up in him getting fussed at by the staff. 

When he made his way home, his thoughts shifted from his work and work-related box, to his Sherlock and everything-that-entailed box. It was a shambles of a box and he didn’t know how to begin sorting through it without letting his emotions box spill out all over it, but he didn’t think he could avoid it anymore. 

Outside on the pavement in front of his door, he heard it, and his heart jumped into his throat painfully. The soft strings of violin music floated through the window, somehow heard even over the pollution of noise on the street. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t expected, to ever hear that sound again and felt instantly transported to any number of nights before when Sherlock stood before the window and played.

He took a deep breath and forced his feet up the stairs and into the flat, still painfully aware that his heartbeat too hard, but he wasn’t going to avoid his own home because a ghost had returned from the dead and played the violin.

John opened the door and there he was, as if he never left. Blue dressing gown and black trousers, barefoot on the cold wood floor as he coaxed his violin into the most plaintive music that John had ever heard him play. Worse than when The Woman had died, but not really. 

A momentary flush of anger and hurt rushed through him at the thought of her. He supposed that was where he got the idea to die, but not die. Sherlock probably went to her for tips on how to pull it off. 

Joy ran up to him, tail wagging in greeting, and he petted her head before hanging his satchel and coat on the hook by the door. Sherlock continued to play, truly oblivious or pretending to be, of John’s presence in the flat, and John went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and feed Joy.

He was spooning sugar in the second teacup before he realized what he was doing. A little over 24 hours and he was already falling into old patterns. He shook his head at himself, but lifted the cup and took it into the living room anyway. He placed Sherlock’s cup down on the table and sat down in his armchair to watch Sherlock.

It was all so painfully familiar and strange at the same time. The line of his back, the shape of his arms as he held the violin and manipulated the bow, the way his curls swayed, sweeping along the collar of his dressing gown as proof that they were just a touch longer than before. It was everything he had missed and John’s chest was tight and his stomach twisted in knots.

Sherlock drew the bow down, pulling one long note that faded into the silent flat, and he put the instrument away with the same methodical precision and care as he always had. His head bowed, shoulders rounding inward slightly, before he turned, the mask that John always hated in place. He crossed over to his armchair, picked up the teacup, and took a sip. 

Joy wandered in from the kitchen and John watched as Sherlock’s eyes locked on her as she crossed over to her bed beside John’s chair and laid down. Sherlock’s eyes shifted up to John, then, and John refused to look away as he sipped his tea.

They sat there, an uncomfortable silence suffocating them, as they drank their tea and observed one another. At this range, John could easily notice the rings dark as bruises under Sherlock’s bright eyes, his cheekbones sharper than two years ago, a cut through his eyebrow that hadn’t been before, and John wanted to know. He wanted to know what happened. Why he wasn’t sleeping, how he came to be thinner, why he was holding his weight like it hurt to stand. Why why why.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and John was drawn to the action, his brow furrowing because it wasn’t an action Sherlock did often. His eyes flicked back up to Sherlock’s eyes, but his eyes had shifted away. Sherlock put his cup down and had leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he watched Joy. John waited silently, content for the moment to see what it was that Sherlock was anxious to say.

“I like your dog,” he said, and John blinked. 

Not what he expected. But, well, when did Sherlock ever do as he expected?

“Joy,” John offered and Sherlock nodded, clearly already aware of her name. 

Joy lifted her head up at her name, clambering to her feet, nudging at John’s hand on his knee and he scratched her ear.

“How long have you had her?”

Are we really having small talk right now? John thought.

“A couple of weeks. I found her on the street. She’s a good dog.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed.

Silence descended again and John finished his tea. Sherlock’s legs were now bouncing, unable to sit still. Sherlock had always been like that. Either completely still or constantly in motion. No in-between. John put the cup down and took a deep breath. 

“I need to take her for a walk.”

“May I join you?”

John blinked again. He hesitated for a moment, Sherlock still not looking at him, before he nodded. 

“Sure.”

Sherlock jumped up, not quite as agile as before, and went to put on socks and shoes. John pulled on his coat and scarf before leashing Joy. Sherlock had pulled on his own coat and scarf by the time John was done and they made their way out of the flat and to the pavement.

They made their way to Regent’s Park in silence and while it wasn’t as uncomfortable as before, it still held something sharp in it. Sherlock was holding his strides back to John’s, rather out of necessity or consideration, John wasn’t sure. They were several minutes into the walk before Sherlock spoke.

“John, I owe you an apology.”

John came to a stop, his thoughts stuttering to a standstill at the words. Sherlock stopped beside him and turned to look at him.

“I believe I did what was necessary, but I see now that my actions may have been more hurtful than I intended,” Sherlock spoke formally, his voice lacking any kind of true emotion, and John frowned.

“You honestly thought we would be okay thinking you killed yourself?” John asked, disbelief and anger coloring his voice despite his attempt to keep it level.

“I knew it would hurt you. I did know that. But I miscalculated how much.”

“You miscalculated? Are you fucking serious?” John asked incredulously. 

“John, I’m sorry. If there had been another way, I would have taken it. You have to believe me that I did what I could to keep you alive.”

Sherlock was staring at the ground as if the meaning to life was written there in the mud and grey icy slush on their path. John stared at him, his flush of anger fading as he took in the diminished stance of the man beside him. The hunched shoulders, the bowed head, and John wasn’t sure if he was being manipulated into the emotions that followed after the anger, but he took a deep breath and tried to push it all back. 

He wanted to believe him, to have faith in him. Wanted to take this second chance and make the most of it. Wanted his friend back.

“Damnit, Sherlock,” he sighed. “I want to believe you.”

Sherlock looked up, his eyes silver in the fading grey light of the day. 

“It’s just hard, for me. You get that, right? It’s hard for me, all of this. I trusted you and then you just...left. And I want to believe you that you didn’t have a choice or another option. But it’s hard.”

“I understand, John. I’m just asking for forgiveness. I’ll understand if you can’t trust me again, but I am truly sorry,” Sherlock apologized, sincerity clear in his voice. 

John nodded after several moments of silence. 

“Yeah, Sherlock. Of course, I forgive you.”

Sherlock smiled, then, slow and honest, and John didn’t hold back his own in answer. 

Things weren’t perfect, but it was a start. 

He started walking again, Joy leading the way, as Sherlock fell into step beside him again.

“So where have you been, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, thoughtful, before he started to talk. And John listened without a word as they made their way through the park, and then back to the flat as the sun went down.


	20. Sweets

When they arrived back to 221B, John had gone to the kitchen to make tea, and Sherlock had gone to his chair. John could hear the familiar click of keys on a laptop as he poured boiled water over the tea bags and he wondered what Sherlock was looking for. 

On their walk, Sherlock had told him about where he had been these past two years. How he had tracked Moriarity’s network and people with the aid of Mycroft, infiltrated operations, been captured a handful of times, and escaped with some injuries. It sounded like a bloody Bond film, which John loved as an observer, but the reality had always seemed a bit far-fetched. John had been a military man, but the story Sherlock wove wasn’t straight-forward and had so many twists and turns in the dark and shadowed places of the world that John almost wished he would stop talking.

Things like that changed a man. John knew that. And the more John observed, he saw the subtle changes in Sherlock that weren’t merely related to the passage of time or his physical injuries.

He had seen and done things that he never wanted to do. John could see it in his face, which was both alarming and somewhat comforting. Sherlock’s mask was still there, but it slipped more than it ever had before as he spoke. 

John glanced down at the table and noticed yet another plate of biscuits. He grabbed a tray and placed the tea and the plate on it before leaving the kitchen. The clacking of keys had faded and the living room was silent by the time he walked in with his laden tray. 

Sherlock was laid out on the couch in his traditional thinking pose, fingers steepled beneath his chin, but there was one major difference. Joy, her head resting under Sherlock’s hands, and her tail wagging lazily, was stretched out atop him and John blinked at the strange sight. 

He forced his feet forward, ignoring the strange twist in his chest at the sight of his dog completely comfortable and relaxed on the man that had once held John’s heart in his hands without knowing it. John also ignored that he very much still held it in his hands, still unknowingly, and he didn’t imagine that would ever change. John didn’t think he could let himself let it change. 

He could love Sherlock, and Sherlock could care for him in his way, and it was both enough, but not enough. 

John frowned at his own melancholy thoughts and forced himself to give a small laugh as he crossed over and put down the tray on the table.

“I think Mrs. Hudson may be trying to kill me slowly through baked goods. Death by sweets. Almost every day she’s shown up with some new biscuit she’s made or cake she’s baked.”

Sherlock’s brows arched up, but he didn’t reply or even open his eyes as John settled down in his chair and bit into one of the ginger nuts. 

“Though, I think she may have made these for you. These were your favorites, if I recall,” John said as the silence stretched, as if he didn’t recall every detail about Sherlock over their shared time together. 

“Your tea is getting cold,” John tried after a few more minutes. 

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock spoke quietly into the distance between them.

“For cold tea and someone else’s biscuits?” John joked weakly. “Hardly worth thanks, I think.”

“No,” Sherlock nearly whispered. “For the flowers.”

John frowned as he watched Sherlock, who still hadn’t moved from his supine position with a living dog blanket. What flowers? John thought wildly, before the answer slammed into and he nearly gasped at the force of it.

“It was you,” he said in disbelief. “It was you, wasn’t it?” 

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and turned to look at John with eyes that shone blue in the lights that sparkled from the tree in the corner of the room.

“You left the flowers. The daffodils and the tulips.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long time before providing the barest suggestion of a nod. 

“You knew. The language of the flowers, didn’t you? Asking for forgiveness and new beginnings. It was on purpose.”

“Just as you left lilies and carnations. The baby’s breaths and the roses and chrysanthemums. All the flowers you’ve left for me.”

John stared at Sherlock, his heart beating wildly in his chest at the implications in his words. He knew about them all. How? Had Mycroft been feeding him information the whole time? He wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to be spying on him. That didn’t even touch on the fact that John had often spoken at the apparently empty grave, as well. Had he been recorded? His heartbroken and honest confessions to a dead man preserved against his knowledge for any bastard who had the right clearance to listen to? 

Sherlock knew. He knew. He wasn’t supposed to know how John felt, not the deepest crevices of his heart, those locked boxes that he only acknowledged in the silent graveyard and his previously quiet flat when the nightmares woke him. 

Suddenly, he couldn’t sit any longer. He rose swiftly to his feet, crossing the room and throwing on his coat and scarf.

“I’ll be back later,” he threw over his shoulder as he yanked on his gloves and practically ran down the stairs, unable to stay in the suffocating feeling that settled over him in the flat.

The cold air hit his face and he turned down the pavement without a thought in his head beyond getting as far away as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'm sorry this is so late!
> 
> Secondly, I'll be honest and say I'm not 100% in love with this chapter. It was kicking my butt and John wasn't ready to cooperate with me. Hopefully, he gets his head together tomorrow for me. He's a stubborn one. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Your support and kudos and kind comments mean the world to me. 💜💜💜


	21. Darkness

John walked aimlessly, his body working on instinct alone as he put as much distance as he could between his thoughts and the man sitting in their flat. His flat. The flat they used to share, and then John lived and grieved in alone for 2 years, and now were apparently sharing again because John offered Sherlock his room back without a thought.

Sherlock knew. Somehow, Sherlock knew about the flowers he had left, and knew the meaning behind them. He felt an odd mix of vindication and overwhelming embarrassment. Vindication because he had always liked to think that Sherlock would have been able to read John’s messages through the flowers and embarrassment because of the messages he had left. Not that he was embarrassed about his feelings, of course. There was nothing embarrassing about being in love with a man and he felt no shame in that. The embarrassment was in not having been able to express that until after that man had died and taken his heart with him. There was shame in cowardice, John felt, and he had been a coward in so many ways when it came to his feelings for Sherlock.

Granted, he had tried, in the beginning. Sherlock had shut him down swiftly and John could admit, now that the sting had faded to distant memory, with all the kindness that he had believed Sherlock could be capable of at the time. He knew that wasn’t the truth, now. Sherlock was capable of so much more depth of emotion than he ever showed. John had watched him actively hide it during their friendship, and then he had died before John ever got the courage to take another chance. 

Except he didn’t die. He was alive, sitting in 221B, and who honestly knew what he was thinking or feeling now. 

John sighed at himself. God, his thoughts were so convoluted he wasn’t even making sense in his own head anymore.

Somehow, John wasn’t surprised when he found himself outside the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the graveyard where an empty box laid in a hole in the ground.

Darkness had descended during his walk, and the gates were locked, and John thought that might be for the best. Apparently, his inclination to talk to Sherlock’s grave hadn’t been erased when confronted with the truth that Sherlock was alive. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or groan or cry at his own actions.

Instead, he just stood there and looked through the gates at the darkened lawn and the stones that marked the places where loved ones were buried. The grounds were quiet, he knew, but he was on the wrong side of the gate to experience that momentary peace. So he stood and listened to the sound of cars driving past on the road, the siren of an ambulance, a car alarm that was blaring somewhere in the distance, as his thoughts circled wildly and his fingers grew cold in his gloves.

He felt his presence before he saw him. That shiver that ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold wind that beat at him, the hairs at the back of his neck rising to attention. John wondered how many times over the past month he had felt that familiar feeling and misplaced it for someone watching to harm him. It was a subtle difference, and it had been so long since he had felt it and had never expected to feel it again, that he thought that afforded him some room in making a wrong assumption. 

He had once been used to the feeling of Sherlock’s clever eyes on him, always watching and observing and making conclusions. He had forgotten, but now, he remembered.

John contemplated ignoring the feeling and was torn on whether he wanted Sherlock to take a hint and leave him alone, or whether he wanted him to reach out and make some kind of statement. 

In the end, he realized he was still being a coward, and that just wasn’t on. He could be a little brave. Sherlock had jumped off a building for him. The least he could do was speak.

“You used to be better at following me without me realizing it. I thought you wouldn’t bother with that anymore.”

John’s voice was hoarse and quiet as he spoke towards the gates. A shift of air beside him, the rustle of a wool coat, alerted him to the proximity of the man behind him.

“Old habits,” Sherlock’s deep voice spoke softly by his ear and John turned his head for the first time to glance at him.

“John, I’m sorry. I know that my actions hurt you and that my apologies will never be enough to truly express my regret, but-” Sherlock said, but John cut him off.

“I already told you I forgive you. I do. Forgive you, that is.”

“But you left.”

John let his head fall towards his chest. “I did. But it wasn’t because I don’t forgive you, or because I want more apologies. I don’t. I believe that you did what you thought was the only thing you could do. You saved my life, your friends' lives, and I’m not so petty as to hold that against you for the rest of your life. You did what was necessary; you made sacrifices that a civilian should never have to make. You did more than should ever have been asked of you. And you did it willingly.”

Sherlock stared at him, those clever eyes of his flashing silver in the dark that surrounded them, and John let Sherlock see him. He wanted Sherlock to see that he was telling the truth. That he believed him and forgave him. It was important that Sherlock understand that.

“Why did you leave?”

“Because I needed to take a step back. Because you were dead, and now you’re not, and I don’t know how to deal with that every moment of the day. Because you saw my flowers and knew what they meant and I have no idea what that means for me or for you. Because I was given a miracle when I had stopped believing in them.”

John sighed, his throat tight as the words faded into the silence between them once more. He looked up from his feet to look towards Sherlock again. He took in the familiar angles, the subtle changes from a lived apart, and his chest felt constricted with the loss of innocence that clung to Sherlock’s shoulders now. He knew Sherlock was no innocent, of course, but he had had to do things that he never wanted to do, and John had been around enough soldiers in his life to know how killing another person changed you. He wished, wildly, that he could have taken that responsibility for himself, to save Sherlock from that, but he couldn’t, and hadn’t been given the opportunity anyway. It was done. There was nothing to do except move forward. 

And John rather liked the idea of moving forward, knowing that Sherlock was going to be there beside him.

It didn’t matter what Sherlock had done, not really. It didn’t matter that Sherlock knew how John felt and didn’t feel the same way. Sherlock still cared for him, it was obvious in every action he had taken that led to this point, and John made the decision that that would be enough. He would accept what Sherlock could give him and not ask for more. 

He would accept his miracle and be grateful for that second chance at the most fulfilling friendship he had ever had.

“Hungry? I’m starving and my bollocks are freezing,” John joked, and that seemed to snap Sherlock out of whatever thoughts he was having as he regarded John. He watched as Sherlock’s lips twitched into a small smile, and let himself return it as they turned to walk back towards Baker Street and the flat, the gloom surrounding them broken up by street lamps, headlights, and the fairy lights that decorated the city.

“Angelo’s?” Sherlock asked with a quirk of his brow and John let his smile grow.

“I wonder if men returned from the dead get meals on the house.”

“Suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

John laughed, shoved his hands in his pockets, and fell into pace beside Sherlock in a way that was more muscle memory than a conscious decision. Laughing was good. Talking was good. What they had, what they could grow again, would be enough. It had to be.


	22. Friends and Family

As it turned out, returning from the dead did earn a man a free meal, which John found more amusing than he probably should have. Angelo had stared for 30 seconds at the two men as they sat in the window seat they had so often occupied before, then exclaimed so loudly that the boy cleaning tables near him dropped the glasses he had just lifted from the table and they shattered on the floor. 

Angelo didn’t even react to the noise or the busted glassware. He approached the table, practically manhandled Sherlock up from his chair, and pulled him into a hug so bone-crushing, John winced in sympathetic sympathy. He bit back a laugh at the look on Sherlock’s face, as well. 

When he was finally released, Sherlock sat gingerly back down, and John wondered briefly if Angelo may have accidentally hurt him, but Sherlock saw him looking and gave a small shake of his head, as Angelo’s booming voice carried on in excited tones. Before John could turn back to look at Angelo, he had already declared he was bringing out his very best dishes and a bottle of wine. 

They sat in a somewhat comfortable silence as they waited for Angelo to return with the wine, which he did after a minute or so. He poured them both a glass with an impressive flourish and then left them alone with a wink and a sly grin. John bit back his groan at that. He hadn’t exactly missed the innuendos, but there was nothing to be done. 

Sherlock lifted his glass, silver eyes intent on John, and John mimicked his action and lifted his glass. The fairy lights that decorated the windows refracted off the glass, sending shards of light sparking off Sherlock’s face and the hand that held his glass.

“To new beginnings?” Sherlock asked, a cautious note in his voice that John didn’t think he had ever heard before.

“And to old friends,” John answered evenly. 

Sherlock smiled at that, seemingly pleased at being considered a friend. They both took sips of the wine, which was actually very good, and John made a mental note of the label on the bottle to purchase a bottle for the flat. Maybe they could share a bottle for Christmas.

John lowered his glass as he realized how close Christmas was. He had had no plans for Christmas beyond that work do he already attended. He had already posted Harry’s gift rather than visit, and Mrs. Hudson had plans to visit her sister for a week starting Christmas Eve.

He had no other family to visit whether he wanted to or not and the list of friend’s that he would spend any kind of time with during Christmas was exactly one, now that he wasn’t dead. Well, and Joy, of course.

John took a large sip of his wine, just shy of a gulp, before he put down his glass.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up at him, brow arched in question in a gesture so familiar that John almost forgot how to breathe. It was such a simple gesture, so Sherlock, and he had almost forgotten what it looked like. He could hardly believe he got to see it again. He cleared his throat around the lump that had formed there in the swell of unexpected affection.

“Who else knows that you’re back?”

“Everyone that matters,” Sherlock answered, which wasn’t really an answer, but John supposed he knew who that meant regardless. 

“So me and Mrs. Hudson, Greg? Your family, obviously,” John said, and couldn’t help the small note of anger that slipped into his voice at the mention of Sherlock’s family, his brother. He shook his head at himself. It didn’t matter. “What about Molly?”

Sherlock frowned slightly, his eyes shifting to the side for a moment in a gesture that John never associated with Sherlock. He was nervous about whatever he was about to say. Or not say. He hadn’t actually said anything yet.

“Or not Molly,” John said slowly, then cut off as Angelo reappeared with their meals. 

Two plates of bucatini in his lemony carbonara with crispy bits of fried bacon and pancetta sprinkled throughout. John let the conversation fade out as Sherlock wasn’t speaking anyway and John had to admit that the food in front of him looked like the most appetizing dish he had seen in years. The first bite, lemon and yolky sauce and salty pancetta with the al dente pasta was perfection, and John hummed in food-inspired bliss.

When he looked back up, it was to find Sherlock staring at him, some emotion in his face that John couldn’t place, but it was gone before he managed to place it. Sherlock bent his head down and turned his attention to his own plate, taking a bite of the food, while John took another sip of his wine. 

“Molly knew,” Sherlock said after a few minutes of quiet as they both ate. John looked up at him curiously.

“Knew what?” he asked, confused by the statement and the sudden decision to talk about Molly after all.

“She helped. With everything. She knew. She knows I’m back, too. I saw her after I visited Lestrade.”

John blinked, taking that information in slowly. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned Molly last night when he discussed what he had been doing while he was dead. John swallowed hard on a feeling that felt very much like jealousy that roared through his body at the fact that Molly had been trusted to keep Sherlock’s secret. He had to look away from Sherlock, then, because he knew he couldn’t hide that emotion, and he didn’t want Sherlock to think he was angry again. Even though he was. Hurt, and angry, again. 

He had forgiven him. He did, but that didn’t mean all of his feelings would abide by that forgiveness at every revelation of new information. Forgiveness was an active, living thing, and it would take some getting used to. He just had to remind himself of that, and hope that Sherlock would understand that, as well. 

John took a deep breath, letting the jealousy settle in his body for a moment before choosing to let it go with a nod.

“That’s good, then.” And it was. That Sherlock had people he trusted was good. It didn’t mean that Sherlock didn’t trust him. It meant that Sherlock had been worried about John’s safety, and not his ability to keep a secret or trust his decisions. 

Sherlock watched him carefully. John nodded again.

“I asked because I was thinking about Christmas. It kind of snuck up on me after everything, and it’s soon. I thought you might like to see if anyone had plans or wanted you to visit. It’s just Joy and me this year and we don’t have any plans beyond the takeaway I’ll order if Mrs. Hudson doesn’t ‘accidentally’ cook up a whole meal for the freezer, which she likely will, despite going to her sister’s for the holiday and not needing to cook.”

John was kind of rambling, and he knew that, but he also didn’t know what else to say and just kept going.

“I mean, it’s Christmas, and that’s supposed to be a time for friends and family, yeah? And I’d honestly rather not see Harry if I can avoid it, which is easy thanks to the postal service and mobile phones, but I really haven’t got any friends to see this year. Mike and his family decided to go off to the States to visit some friend of his, or something, and-”

“John.”

John stopped, looking up as he realized just how long he had been talking about absolutely nothing and wasn’t that embarrassing? He never rambled like that. 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to just stay at the flat.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s going to be rather disappointing, I think. I haven’t even bought crackers.”

Mrs. Hudson might have, though. He’d have to check. She had been sneaking in so many Christmas-related paraphernalia, he wouldn’t be surprised to find crackers and whole bloody yule log on his hearth when he returned home.

“Of course, I’m sure. Christmas with you and Joy sounds far more enjoyable than a Christmas watching Mycroft see how much plum pudding he could eat in one sitting.”

John let out a small laugh as Sherlock no doubt intended for him to do at his comment. Sherlock gave the smallest of smiles in return. 

“I want to spend Christmas with you. I have a couple to make up for, I think,” Sherlock murmured quietly.

John poured out the rest of the wine in both of their glasses and chose to ignore that. It was a bit too large of a box to dig into in the middle of dinner.


	23. Love

When John left for his shift at the clinic that morning it was to the music of the violin and when he returned that evening he was welcomed home by that same music. John didn’t bother to hide the small smile that pulled at his mouth as he walked into the flat. He supposed Sherlock hadn’t had much time for playing. His violin had been here while he was away, for one thing, and from what he had described of his time destroying Moriarity’s web, it wasn’t exactly ideal music-playing conditions. Artistic expression had been understandably diminished. He must have missed it and John could understand if he wanted to play for hours on end.

John’s gaze was immediately drawn to Sherlock, who stood in the window with the fairy lights flickering over his dark curls as he played. Joy was curled up on the floor beside him, her head resting on one of his large bare feet. When she saw him come in, her tail thumped the floor lazily, but she didn’t even bother to raise her head up. 

It kind of figured that his dog would get attached to Sherlock as quickly as she did. There was something about the man that just engendered instant loyalty, though John was aware that he was somewhat singular in that when it came to Sherlock. Yes, he was a difficult man. John would never disagree on that. But he was a good man, even though he often made a conscious effort to ensure no one ever saw that side. John saw it, though. Even now, on the opposite side of one of the most hurtful and painful experiences he’d ever gone through; he saw that Sherlock was a good man.

Sherlock continued to play as John went about his after-work routine. He set the kettle to boil and went to the fridge to see what he could make for dinner. When he pulled open the door, he stared for nearly a full minute before he choked out a noise that sounded like half-disbelief and half-hysterical laugh. 

There was a bag in the fridge that he had not put there. A bag he would have never put in his fridge, ever. A bag of something that used to belong to a someone, or several someone’s, judging by the contents that he really didn’t want to examine too closely as he finally reached around the offending bag and grabbed the container of mushrooms that was behind it. He pulled out the butter and parmesan, as well, because he didn’t want to open the fridge again any time soon.

Well. 

If there had been any worry that Sherlock was a really good hallucination and not actually there, that bag in his fridge put it to rest. Soundly. 

He briefly considered what to do about the bag. In the past, he would have yelled at Sherlock for putting that in the fridge. At the moment though, he didn’t feel like yelling. He almost felt like laughing. Whether from joy or amusement or insanity, he wasn’t sure. In the end, he just set to work making mushroom risotto for dinner. 

It was one of the meals he could always rely on Sherlock eating and the man was still in need of several good, square meals. He was far too thin. 

John was slicing the mushrooms when the familiar call of Mrs. Hudson rang through the flat, followed by an excited bark from Joy, as Sherlock’s music played on. John called out that he was in the kitchen and a moment later she walked in, arms full with two casserole dishes, which she promptly placed down on the table. 

“I have a couple of other dishes downstairs to bring up. I know you didn’t get anything to make for Christmas dinner, John, and that’s just unacceptable this year.”

John turned to her with a smile at that. 

“You didn’t just accidentally cook too much?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she evaded and John snorted a laugh. 

“Of course not.”

“How are you doing, dear?” Her voice was soft when she stepped closer to him and he turned back to his slicing to avoid looking directly at her.

“I’m fine.”

She hummed quietly, and he glanced up at her.

“Really, I am. It’s...well, it is what it is, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she agreed. “Have you two talked yet?”

“Yes, we’ve talked. He explained what happened. Why he did what he did.”

“Why did he do it?”

John paused and put his knife down as he finished slicing the last mushroom. He had thought Sherlock had spoken to Mrs. Hudson about all of this, but perhaps he was wrong.

“There was a threat against us. You and Lestrade and I. He did what he had to do to protect us.”

“I know that, John. But why did he do it?”

“He felt responsible for us.”

“Because he loves you.”

John sighed and shook his head, listening to make sure Sherlock was still playing and not listening to their conversation. He kept his voice low, even though the sound of the violin continued on from the living room. 

“He felt responsible. He cares about all of us.”

“John.”

“Mrs. Hudson, that’s all there is. And that’s okay.”

“You need to tell him, John.”

He shook his head again. 

“There’s no point in telling him anything. He already knows.”

“You told him that you love him?”

“Not in those exact words,” he hedged. He didn’t want to explain the flowers to Mrs. Hudson right now. Or maybe ever. It had been something he did for Sherlock and he didn’t think he wanted to tell anyone else. There was something about it that just belonged to him, and he supposed to Sherlock as well. “But believe me, he knows. He doesn’t feel the same and that’s okay.”

“He said he didn’t love you?”

John let out another half-hysterical laugh. Mrs. Hudson was like a highly trained sniffer dog and she wasn’t going to let this go, it seemed.

“Not in so many words.” 

She sighed in exasperation and John wondered how she deserved to be the exasperated one.

“You two need to talk with actual words and not whatever strange dance it is you currently communicate through. It’s not enough.”

John blinked at her for a moment, but she threw her hands up and walked away before he could think up a reply to that.

“I’ll bring up those other dishes, dear, and then I’m going to go down to the flat and mind my own business,” she tossed over her shoulder and John shook his head.

He turned back to his dinner and was just stirring in the rice when Mrs. Hudson returned with the last of the dishes. 

“Get those in the fridge soon,” she said and then made her way out.

That reminded John what was currently taking up residence in his fridge and he frowned. There would be time to remind Sherlock that certain things needed to be kept in certain locations. Maybe he would buy Sherlock a mini-fridge, just for whatever takes his scientific fancy. He could put up with the experiments, but that didn’t mean he needed to see them every time he wanted milk. 

The music came to an end when dinner was about half-way finished and Sherlock walked into the kitchen a couple of minutes after.

“I took Joy for a walk before you came home.”

“Thank you. Was that before or after you stopped by to see Molly?” he asked, eyes on his risotto as he stirred.

“During, actually. We walked and she agreed to meet me outside since Joy isn’t a certified working dog.”

“Oh. Okay,” John replied, because he wasn’t sure what else to say to that, and he didn’t feel like getting into the bag in the fridge at the moment.

“Well, dinner should be done in about 10 minutes or so. Would you mind putting those dishes in the fridge? Mrs. Hudson brought them up for Christmas.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but he saw him move in the corner of his eye to put them up, and neither of them said a word about the bag. A moment later Sherlock was pulling down dishes and utensils, then pouring out two glasses of wine from the bottle John had opened to make the risotto. There was a silence about them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a gentle silence that spoke more of healing than hurting. John felt his shoulders relax, unaware that he had been tensed up in the moments before. 

When he served out the risotto and they each took a seat, Joy finally ambled into the kitchen to investigate. She nudged John’s knee with her head and he scratched her ears before turning to his dinner.

“John,” Sherlock broke into the quiet after eating for a few quiet minutes.

John looked up at him, straight into the blue gaze that was locked sharply on him.

“Yes?” he asked, far more breathy than he intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What is it?”

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. Something I’ve wanted to tell you.”

John felt his mouth pull into a frown at the serious tone in Sherlock’s voice.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. No, nothing is wrong. I just...I wanted to tell you,” he said, his gaze still intent, and John had to look away and take a sip of his wine. 

“Tell me what?” John asked almost nervously. He felt himself teetering on the knife-edge of wanting to know whatever it was and wanting to run away from whatever it could be that had Sherlock looking at him like that. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, opened his mouth, closed it again. “I missed you, John.”

“I missed you, too,” John replied honestly. It was nice to hear that Sherlock had missed him, but he couldn’t help feeling that that hadn’t been what Sherlock had originally meant to say. 

Sherlock was biting on his bottom lip again and John’s eyes went to his mouth before looking back up at him. 

“I missed your risotto, too. Maybe you could do the thing with the peas another night?”

John laughed. Missed for his cooking. Well, he never would have thought that would be something someone would miss him for. 

“Yeah, of course. Maybe for New Years'? I don’t have everything I need to make it, and I don’t feel like fighting the chaos of grocery stores this close to Christmas.”

“New Years' sounds perfect,” Sherlock replied with a genuine smile tugging the corner of his lips.

John couldn’t help returning the smile as a warmth infused his chest and spread down to the tips of his fingers and toes. It felt like acceptance and home. It felt like love. It didn’t matter if they didn’t talk about it in explicit words, no matter what Mrs. Hudson seemed to think. There were different kinds of love. He would accept what he was given. He would love Sherlock as he did and accept whatever quiet, unspoken affection Sherlock would bestow upon him. It was still love, even without the words.


	24. Merry Christmas

John took Joy out for a late morning walk. He would have invited Sherlock, but the man was lying supine on the couch in his mind palace when he had left, and he didn’t want to bother him. Despite the icy polluted slush that covered the pavement, it was a relatively mild winter day with occasional rays of sunshine poking through the overcast grey sky, with no wind, and John decided to take a longer walk than usual. 

He tried to convince himself it was because it was a decent day and not at all because he was still trying to figure out how to handle everything between him and Sherlock. He failed miserably, of course, but he hadn’t expected to win. He used to be much better at lying to himself, but age or love or the miracle of a friend returning from the dead changed that a bit.

Joy walked contently ahead of him and he let her lead the way with a few detours when she caught the scent of something interesting and wanted to investigate. He was fine with following her for a while and she was happy to find different things to explore. They walked for nearly 40 minutes before John thought they should start heading back. The weather was still fine, but it was London, and he didn’t fancy having to walk back in sudden rain. 

When they were nearly back to Baker Street, John saw the car pull up to the kerb and slowly pace him. He felt his shoulders and fists tighten automatically and when the door was opened when the car pulled ahead to stop in front of him, he felt a moment of giddy excitement at the thought of jumping in the car and slugging Mycroft Holmes right in the mouth. 

He held back his fist, however. Instead, he guided Joy into the car and followed after her. He took adverse pleasure in watching Joy shake her body, slinging dirty London moisture from her coat and her paws dripping wetly onto the carpet of the vehicle. 

It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now. John didn’t bother hiding his pleased smile at the look of disgust that flickered over Mycroft’s face as he looked at the water droplets that had landed on his pristine three-piece suit. Pretentious bastard. Served him right. John refused to make any excused for his dog and Mycroft seemed to instinctually know that any comment he made would be met with either silence or an angry retort. 

Mycroft looked at John and forced a smile that clearly pained him.

“Charming dog, Dr. Watson.”

“Yeah, she’s alright,” John replied with forced ease. 

“I see my brother has taken his rooms in 221B again.”

John didn’t see any reason to respond to that. Mycroft knew, obviously. He knew where Sherlock was sleeping and he knew where Sherlock had been for the past two years. He knew John visited his grave and he had to know that John would have given everything up, to have been able to follow Sherlock where he went. To protect him and watch his back. 

But he hadn’t said a word to John. He kept Sherlock’s secret, and left John alone, and sold his brother out to his enemy with Sherlock’s consent. John had forgiven Sherlock, but he had no reason or inclination to forgive Mycroft. He doubted Mycroft cared either way. 

“Dr. Watson, I know there is no love lost between us,” Mycroft began after the silence stretched for several minutes and John snorted. “Despite that, I know that we both have at least one thing in common.”

John's brows rose and he wondered what Mycroft thought that could be. 

“We both care for Sherlock. We want what is best for him. He doesn’t always make the best choices when it comes to that, but he chose to return to London and to Baker Street. He’s going to be needed in the days to come. The threats that rise against us.”

“So you’ll use him again.”

“Yes, I will. To protect this country, I will do what I have to. But that’s why I need you.”

John barked out a laugh.

“For what? There’s nothing I would ever do for you.”

Mycroft forged on. “I need you to protect Sherlock.”

“Even from you?” John asked, not bothering to hide the thick sarcasm in his voice.

“Even from me, if necessary.”

John shook his head in disbelief as he processed what Mycroft said. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t protect Sherlock to the best of his ability. Of course, he would. The disbelief was Mycroft asking him to do so.

“He’s a grown man, Mycroft. He can look after himself.”

“He can, but I think he's tired of being alone.”

John looked away from the other man. He glanced out the window and wasn’t surprised to find they were in front of the flat. He sighed, then opened the door and climbed out with Joy without a word.

“Just remember what I said, Dr. Watson. Merry Christmas,” Mycroft called out before he closed the door and the car pulled away.

By the time he and Joy arrived back into the flat, they’d been gone for over two hours. He unclipped the leash from Joy’s collar before they made it to the door and she bounded inside and to the kitchen for what he assumed was her water bowl. John followed at a more sedate pace, expecting to find Sherlock still on the couch, but a quick look confirmed that Sherlock had moved as John made his way in. 

John’s feet stopped responding to his instructions to walk as he came into the center of the room, his eyes quickly scanning the area in surprise. There were vases covering every available surface, and some not available ones, filled with flowers. The scent of the blooms overpowered even the sharp, citrusy scent of the pine that had been present for the month. 

It was a riot of color, but it wasn’t blinding or overbearing. John spun slowly in a circle as he took it all in. 

Purple violets. Red roses. Pink tulips. Peruvian lilies. Baby’s breath. Forget-me-nots. Camellias in several colors. Daffodils and chrysanthemums. Other blooms he couldn’t name because he hadn’t ever seen them before. He had never seen so many flowers outside of a garden or flower shop in his life and here they all were, filling his living room with their delicate brilliance. 

Every single bloom declared a message and John closed his eyes to them. He had to. He took a deep breath, lungs filling with oxygen and the scent of the roses that he was closest to, and let it out slowly. 

Love. They all spoke of love. Romantic love, besotted love, promised love, true love. He didn’t know every flower's name, but he understood their message.

When he opened his eyes again, he couldn’t say that he was surprised to see Sherlock standing in the room across from him. He was in one of his bespoke suits and John couldn’t help noticing that it wasn’t as fitted as it had once been. He was still as breathtaking as he had ever been, but the jacket was just a touch to large, the buttons of the white silk shirt he wore weren’t stressed at how fitted they were to his broad chest. It was all further proof of their time apart and John hated it. He wanted Sherlock to fit those suits properly again. If that meant feeding the man sweets and making risottos and dinners at Angelo’s for the heaviest pasta dishes the man could make, then he would gladly do so. 

When he forced his eyes back to Sherlock’s, he saw that Sherlock read every thought he had had the way he used to. He wasn’t completely convinced that Sherlock wasn’t able to read his mind, actually. The man wasn’t a mind-reader, in general. Just a John-reader.

Sherlock was staring at him and he wasn’t sure what to say. What to do. He realized in a distant way that he was feeling overwhelmed by everything, but he continued to stand there and watch Sherlock watching him. 

“Where do you even find these kinds of flowers in the middle of winter in London?” he finally asked, because he didn’t know what else to say, and the silence that had been growing between them felt suffocating.

“Florist. Owed me a favor,” Sherlock replied so easily that John felt a giggle bubble up at the familiarity of that statement. Sherlock had always known someone who owed him a favor. Of course, he would know a florist who could get him flowers that no one else could find in December. 

Sherlock smiled at his giggle and John let it fade with a shake of his head.

“Sherlock...what is all this?” he asked, his arm flinging out sideways to encompass the flowers, the meanings behind them. Everything.

Sherlock stepped closer to him, but not close enough to reach out and touch, not yet. 

“An attempt to say what I haven’t been able to tell you before. You spoke to me in flowers. Your anger and your hurt, in the beginning. Your guilt. I wish you hadn’t felt guilty. It wasn’t your fault and I’m sorry my actions made you feel like they were. But your messages starting to change. You left a different kind of flower. I thought maybe I could try and explain who you are to me the same way.”

John wasn’t entirely sure he was breathing as Sherlock explained the flowers, but he assumed he was as he was still conscious when he had finished.

“How do you know that?” John heard himself ask, but he had a feeling he knew the answer. 

“Mycroft. He’s horrible, but he has his uses.”

John nodded. He looked away from Sherlock, to all the flowers again. His thoughts whirling as he tried to make sure that he truly understood what he was being told. 

“So this...this is what you want to say? The roses and the tulips and the chrysanthemums?” 

“Yes,” he replied simply. He stepped closer and John could smell him now. That citrus smell that was him. It settled under the flowers and the evergreens, but it was strong as he stood so close to John. Close enough to reach out and touch a hand to his hand, his arm, his chest, his face. He didn’t, but he could. 

“John. I did what I did to save you. Every choice I made after, every road I chose to follow, it was with the intention to make it back to London. To make it back to you.” 

Sherlock stood there, looking at him, and John watched him for what felt like forever as his words settled into his skin and bones. Sherlock was telling him what he never expected to hear. He had accepted what he thought he could have and now Sherlock was telling him that there was far more to be offered. That he could have it. He reached out and took one of Sherlock’s hands in his. His hand was warm and dry under John’s, which were still somewhat cold from being outside for so long. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he could be brave when he needed to be.

“I love you,” he stated, his voice strong and sure because Sherlock deserved more than timid declarations of love. If he was reading the entire situation wrong, then so be it. He wouldn’t be ashamed of his feelings. 

Sherlock smiled as his free hand came up to cup John’s cheek, his long fingers curling around the back of his head. 

“I love you.”

John closed his eyes, unable to look at Sherlock for a moment. He had never thought he would hear those words from him. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock’s sharp silver gaze was on him. He flicked them up, and John followed, then laughed. 

“Really?” he asked, amusement and affection clear in his voice.

“Mrs. Hudson moved it last night after she brought in the food. I think she thought there was a better chance we’d find ourselves standing together here.”

“I think that woman may be dangerous.”

“She definitely is.”

“I’d hate to disappoint her after she went through the trouble of moving it.”

“Yes, I agree.”

John smiled up at him. Sherlock returned his smile, the mask he so often hid behind completely missing as he leaned down to capture John’s lips in a warm kiss. John pressed into him, his arms wrapping around Sherlock’s too-thin waist as Sherlock’s other hand came up to cup his face, as well. It was a rather chaste kiss and when they pulled back it was with more smiles on both their faces.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John.” 

The mistletoe hung from the ceiling above them as they both leaned in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! Thank you to everyone who has followed along, read, commented, and kudos along the way. I truly appreciate every comment and kudos more than I can say. I promised a happy ending and I hope you agree that it is. These boys didn't make it easy, but when do they ever?
> 
> There may be a little New Years' sequel to this story. I think they might have more to tell. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! 💜💜💜


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